No Heroes on the High Seas
by SpellCleaver
Summary: When Luke's aunt and uncle are executed by order of the Emperor's right hand, Lord Vader, he flees his home to search for his sister and the mother he never knew. But then Obi-Wan Kenobi stows away about the same ship, Vader gives chase, and Luke is dragged into a conflict that his family are at the very heart of. Pirates of the Caribbean-inspired AU.
1. Fire and Water

**Here's my newest fic! I hope to update every Friday, and I should clarify: _This is AU_. This isn't a historical AU; it's an AU in a world I made up. It's not supposed to be historically accurate, but it _does_ take inspiration from the general time period Pirates of the Caribbean is set in.**

 **That being said, if you have anything to say about ships/that historical time, please let me know in the reviews! I'll do my best to make it as accurate as possible, but if there's some gaping hole in the story, just assume it's due to differences between that world and our own/plot convenience.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars. I'm just doing this for fun.**

* * *

The flagship of the Imperial navy was only docked in the small port town of Tatooine for eighteen hours, but it was enough to change the course of history for the entire Empire.

They'd been docked there for six hours when Luke Skywalker came to have a look at it.

It truly was a sight to see, with the great Imperial cog stamped across each sail in black and red, the entire main sail dyed a vibrant crimson, dozens upon dozens of sailors swarming the docks in their off-white uniforms; for a moment Luke just stood on the docks, and let the crowd swarm round him. It was a bright day, with the hot sun beating down on him, but the strong winds ruffled his hair and let him breathe in a way he never could in the forge.

"Luke? Luke!"

He grinned at Biggs as he barrelled through the crowd, earning his fair share of curses. His friend's hair was cropped shorter than when Luke had last seen him, his clothes the same off-white as the Imperial sailors, almost like—

"Father paid an Imperial captain to take me on as an apprentice," Biggs said breathlessly, his grin lighting up his features. "I get to sail with the Imperial Navy! And if I train right," he lowered his voice conspiratorially, as if it was a secret, not something that happened to every apprentice, "I might get to captain my own ship one day!"

There was a tightness in Luke's chest; for a moment he couldn't speak around it.

"That's great!" he exclaimed, trying to keep the wistfulness out of his voice. He wanted to sail the seas just as much as Biggs—if not _more_. But his uncle wouldn't allow it.

Not that he let that ruin his happiness for Biggs. He friend deserved better than that.

"I'm happy for you," he said, and he _meant it_ , the smile tugging at the corners of his lips only a little bit faked. "You'll do great, I know it." Before Biggs had to time to formulate a response—or notice something wrong with his friend—he rushed on. "What ship will you be serving with?"

Biggs jerked his chin. "That one."

Luke glanced behind him. His mouth fell open. " _That_ one. The _Devastator_?"

"Yup."

"But. . ." Luke shook his head. "That's _Lord Vader's flagship_."

"I _know_!" Biggs's voice was practically a squeak at the end of the word. "And _look_. He's right there!"

Luke frowned in the direction Biggs was pointing. Sure enough, the man standing arguing with the Mayor wore a red and black jacket fine enough for a lord, and all the officers around him—even the ones whose rank badges identified them as captains—seemed to defer to him. It probably _was_ Vader.

"He looks a bit like you," Biggs said thoughtfully.

Luke just slanted him a look. That was ridiculous. The man's blond hair was a few shades darker than his, not to mention he was _tall_. The only resemblance he could see—at least, from this distance—was what looked like a cleft in his chin.

Biggs threw his hands up defensively. "I'm just saying! You can't deny what's true."

Luke just sighed. "Alright," he said. "I need to be getting back to the forge, so I'll see you—"

"Biggs Darklighter?"

They snapped to attention at that, the sharp shout startling both of them. Luke whirled round to see a stern-faced man with the rank badge of a captain striding towards them both, brows furrowed and face prematurely lined.

"Well?"

Luke realised he was looking at him. "Uh, he's Biggs Darklighter, sir," he said hurriedly, stepping aside. "I'm not joining the crew."

The captain's lips pinched together in faint disgust. "Would you like to, Mr. . .?"

"Oh—Skywalker," Luke supplied. "Luke Skywalker."

"Captain Piett."

"And. . . I'd love to." He threw a glance at the ship again, the sails billowing gently in the wind, and knew he wasn't doing a good job of keeping the longing off his face. "But my uncle would never let me."

"No parents?"

"No." He swallowed slightly at the lie, but it wasn't like he could _tell_ the man the truth. "Not anymore."

"I see." Piett nodded sharply. "Well, come along, Darklighter—I'm to show you around the ship, get you acquainted with the crew. You'll see your friend just before we cast off tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," Biggs said, a wide grin splitting his face. "See you around, Luke—you'd better get back before Owen notices you're gone."

Luke nodded, trying to muster up some sort of smile, even as his friend turned away.

He didn't go back to the forge for a while after that.

* * *

He could feel the heat from the forge before he'd even stepped over the threshold. The donkey was moving in its circles, the rhythmic _clang, clang, clang_ of his uncle hammering the metal only interspersed with his uncle's shouts:

"And _stay out_!"

There was a clatter, as if something was thrown. Luke blinked in shock. Uncle Owen was _never_ angry enough to resort to violence.

Never, except in the case of—

"Ah, Luke." Ben Kenobi emerged from the backroom, to the front of the shop. "It's good to see you."

"Er, you too," Luke replied, slipping across the room and to behind the shop counter. It was his shift, anyway.

The door slammed shut, and Ben didn't make a move to get to it. Instead, he just kept standing there. Luke swallowed.

Ben was. . . odd.

He'd always been there, just that crazy old hermit who lived in the attic of a disused office a few streets away, for as long as Luke could remember. But all he really knew about the man was that Uncle Owen hated him.

Luke tried to busy himself with the things behind the counter, but he was hyperaware of Ben still standing, watching him. He cleared his throat.

"Can I help you with anything?" he asked, voice light enough to be polite, but pointed enough to be slightly rude as well. He half expected Ben to start lecturing him on manners—he had the accent of Coruscanti nobility, who tended to do that sort of thing—but he didn't. He just chuckled, looking thoughtful.

"Actually, I think there is," he said slowly. Luke pressed his lips together. Uncle Owen wouldn't be thrilled to learn he had tried to entertain the man, even if it _did_ run with what Aunt Beru had taught him about politeness.

Ben reached into the satchel he was carried, and drew something out. "I tried to ask your uncle for help with this, but he seems reluctant to provide it. Perhaps you could help?"

Luke swallowed, but said aloud, "Sure." _Damn you, Aunt Beru, for being so thorough._ "Bring it here."

Ben stepped forward, and laid a parcel on the counter. No, not a parcel—a sword, wrapped in cloth. Luke pulled the wrappings back carefully until it lay exposed.

It was an old sword, that much was obvious. Rust had eaten away at the blade, turning it black and red in some spots. The copper decoration on the pommel had long since gone green, but Luke's fingers brushed the patterns it formed anyway, each swirl and peak somehow intrinsically familiar. But, most of all, the symbol he could still see embellished on the blade itself. . .

"This was a Jedi's sword," he breathed, unable to keep the awe out of his voice. The stories that were told of the Jedi, even under the Empire, were _fantastical_ : just the thought of that sort of person, highly trained warriors who sailed the seas upholding peace and justice, made Luke's inner child crow with joy.

It was one of their swords; it _had_ to be. The symbol, a sword pointed up with the wings of a starbird spread at its base, was too iconic.

"Yes," Ben confirmed, and with that confirmation it suddenly became too heavy a burden, too _much_ , to touch the sword any longer. He drew back hastily. That— that blade, that _sacred, honourable_ blade. . .

"Can you repair it?"

Luke jerked his head up, eyes wide. "What?"

Ben waved his hand. "The sword. Can you repair it? Renovate? Restore it to its former glory."

"Ben. . ." Luke's gaze surveyed the blade again. "It's practically all rust. It looks like it hasn't been cleaned in twenty years. It'll never work in battle again."

"Oh." Luke had never seen anyone look as dejected as Ben did now. "Well. I can't say I didn't expect that, but I had hoped. . ."

"For what?" Luke was genuinely curious. "It would take a miracle to save it."

Ben shrugged. "Miracles seem to happen an awful lot when you're around, Luke."

His face warmed. "That's—"

"Ships always sail into this harbour undamaged when you're in the port. Swords you make last far, far longer than they should." Ben's blue eyes were bright as they looked at him. "There's something about you that _causes_ miracles."

Luke did his best to meet the gaze. "That may be so," he said, "but I can't save that sword."

Ben nodded. "Okay," he said, then turned to leave.

"Wait!" He paused. "Aren't you going to take this back?"

Ben glanced at the blade again, and shook his head. "No. I have no use for it; it only brings back bad memories. Besides," he added, almost as an afterthought. "By right of inheritance, it's yours."

"What? Why?"

"Because," Ben said as he slipped out the door, leaving Luke staring at the talisman with new eyes, "it was your father's."

* * *

"Luke!" Uncle Owen shouted up the stairs. "Stop prancing around and get down here. I've got a customer you need to serve."

Luke grimaced, glancing around the small room. It wasn't the best place to practice his swordsmanship, but it wasn't like there was anywhere else to go, and at least there was a _little_ space.

He lowered the training foil he always used, and sheathed it at his belt. It may be overly dramatic to carry around a sword sheathed at his side, but it made him feel that slightest bit more prepared.

Especially considering what had happened to his father. . .

He glanced at the bed, under which he'd hidden the sword Ben had given him. Later. He'd think about that later.

"Alright, Uncle Owen," he shouted back, even as he took the stairs at a run, "but the moment I'm done, I'm going to check the post office again."

His uncle snorted as he passed him, where he was hammering away at some horseshoe. "You can try, boy, but you know as well as I do there won't be any post waiting for you."

"It's been two weeks," Luke informed him. "There'll be something."

"Like there was yesterday?" Owen pinched his lips together—Luke knew he worried his idealism was only going to hurt him, one day—but shrugged. "Just get to the front, Luke. There's a trader there wanting to buy a sword and you know I can't leave this unattended."

"Okay."

The man standing at the counter glanced up when the door to the backroom opened, scowling. "Took you long enough," he grumbled, which was just _rude_. He dumped the sword he'd picked off one of the displays onto the counter. "I'd like this one, kid, if it's not too much bother for you."

Luke gritted his teeth, but accepted the sword and started rifling around in the drawers behind the desk. He glanced up at the man surreptitiously as he did.

"Your name?" he asked. "For the records."

The trader's scowl deepened; he glanced around slightly nervously. "Who keeps _records_ about the things they sell?"

"My uncle," Luke said coolly. "It helps keep track of things, orders—makes sure nothing's stolen." The man stiffened at the implication, but before he could open his mouth, Luke plastered a sickly sweet smile to his face. "Your name?"

The man's face turned murderous, but he snarled, "Solo. Han Solo."

"Solo. . ." Luke repeated, jotting it down. "So. . . Uh, are you in town for long?"

"What?" Solo scoffed. "Do you need to put that on record as well?"

"I was just curious." The pen had run out of ink; Luke dipped it in the pot again, and kept writing. "I always wanted to go to sea."

"Yeah, well, so long as this sword is good enough, I won't be sticking around long."

Luke's eyebrows flitted up. "Do you see a lot of action?" His gaze flicked to the pistol half-hidden at Solo's hip—double-barrelled, if he recognised it correctly.

Solo puffed up at that. "Are you suggesting I'm a pirate, kid?"

"There are more official blacksmiths than this for traders to go to," Luke pointed out, putting the pen down. "If you've come here, and don't want your name getting recorded, it's because you've got something to hide."

"Well ain't you got a big mouth. Look here, if I _was_ trying to stay secret, I wouldn't've put up with your questions, and you'd be in real trouble right about now. All _my_ business is perfectly legal."

"Uh huh," Luke said, but didn't press. Contrary to what Biggs and his uncle seemed to think, he _did_ know the line between brave and reckless. He simply chose to ignore it sometimes.

Fortunately, this was not one of those times. He just wanted to get this over with, and get to the post office.

But Solo didn't seem to want to let it go. "What would it be to you, kid, anyway?"

Luke didn't meet his gaze as he said, "My father was killed by pirates. I'm sorry if I'm not a fan of them."

"Big deal. Everyone dies," Solo scoffed. Luke carefully didn't look at him, and after a moment he coughed. "Uh—I mean, sorry to hear that. But that don't mean everyone's a pirate."

"Oh, I know," Luke said quietly, finally putting away the paper into the ledger and pushing the sword back across the counter. "Some people are traders who smuggle while they're at it."

Wariness flashed across Solo's eyes at the words. But Luke had said them quietly, with no hope anyone could hear, so he just nodded with a grudging acceptance as he took the blade. "Yeah," he said. "Sometimes they are."

He jerked his chin towards the racks of swords along the walls. "You make these?"

"Some of them."

"Know how to use them?"

A smile curved the side of his mouth. "Yeah. I train with them every day."

Solo's eyebrows flew up. "You any good?"

Luke just shrugged.

Solo glanced at the door, then back again, indecision on his face. "Look, kid, I gotta go, but. . . I'll be in the port until tomorrow morning. Mos Eisley Port, that is—the smaller one." No doubt to avoid the Imperials. "Look for the _Millennium Falcon_. Maybe then you can show me how good you really are."

It wasn't quite an invitation—was, rather, the closest thing Luke would get to an apology for Solo's cruel words—and maybe the kindling of some sort of mutual curiosity. It didn't matter.

It didn't matter, because it made Luke smile anyway. "Sure. I'll try to see you there."

* * *

Once Solo had left, Luke wasted no time in shouting to Uncle Owen that he was heading off. All he got in reply was a non-committal grunt, but Luke didn't really care.

She _had_ to have written back to him. It'd been over two weeks—she had to. She was always on time.

He was practically sprinting through the streets in his excitement, automatically ducking and weaving round the crowd like he'd been doing his entire life. It was unavoidable that he crash into a _few_ people, but most of the people in the area knew him already, so they just clucked their tongues and waved him on.

"Luke!" someone shouted. He pivoted on his foot, barely keeping his balance, to spot his aunt standing just outside the greengrocer's.

"Take these, will you?" Beru panted, thrusting a basket of fruit on him. "I can get everything else, but I'm only one person. You need to carry _something_." She glanced around. "I suppose you're going to the post office?"

He nodded, unable to keep the eagerness off his face. He didn't need to; his aunt just smiled at him fondly.

"I saw that friend of yours who works at the post office—Miss Marstrap—round here this morning; she said her Ma noticed a letter for you there. It's probably from her."

His heart leapt. She _had_ written back!

"Thanks, Aunt Beru!" he said, beginning to turn away. There was a new vigour in his step: he started jogging before he was even walking.

"Careful not to drop the fruit everywhere!"

"Love you too, Aunt Beru!"

He caught a glimpse of the fond shake of her head before she was swallowed up by the crowd again, and he grinned as he ran.

The familiar streets blurred together. The indistinct chatter bouncing off every cobbled surface, the brown and grey of the horses and carriages that careened all over the place—then, finally, the grand front of the post office, one of the oldest buildings in the town.

There was a massive queue snaking out of the doors; Luke sighed, but made to get into it. If the letter _was_ from who he thought it was from, then it was worth waiting for.

Before he reached the end of the queue, however, he was waylaid.

"Don't bother, Wormie," Camie said, her lip wrinkling slightly as it always did when she saw him. "Here it is. This is what you came for, right?"

Hi eyes blew wide at the sight of the envelope. Printed on the front with wide, loopy curls in blue ink so dark it was nearly black, was his name: _Luke Skywalker_.

He knew that handwriting.

Camie only smirked faintly at the eagerness with which he took it, and began tearing it open. "Well, that's one less customer I have to serve on my shift," she said drolly, eyeing the queue with distinct distaste. "Get out of here, Wormie, or you'll drop it in the mud."

"Thank you," he told her earnestly, deciding _just this once_ to let the stupid nickname go unchallenged.

For a moment, she seemed to genuinely smile at him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, but he'd walked off before she could say anything else.

He wandered along the high street for a few moments, before he found the old jetty no one used anymore and strode out onto it. This was where he always read her letters: at the end of the jetty, kicked his legs against the tide, staring out over that distant horizon.

He carefully tore along the edges of the envelope, trying not to damage the letter inside. When he'd finished, he tugged the sheet of paper free then unfolded it, tucking the envelope into his pocket, and began to read.

 _Dear Luke,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well_ — _or finds you at all, if you've finally run off to sea and are no longer at the forge_.

He snorted at the thought. His younger self may have fantasised, vocally and vibrantly, about doing so, but he knew better now. Unless Uncle Owen managed to find an apprentice to take on who could do at least as much work as Luke could, running off would just damn his aunt and uncle to an even harder life than they already had. Luke couldn't do that to them.

 _I'm obligated to report that your sister is also alive and well, and as eager to meet you as you are her. Leia wanted me to say hello to you for her, and I promise you will meet her soon. I'm working on a way to make it happen. You have to trust me._

Luke pinched his lips together, unable to ignore the stab of disappointment, although he wasn't exactly _surprised_. She'd been saying "soon" since she'd told him he _had_ a sister, three years ago. But all she'd been able—or willing—to say about her since then was a name. Leia.

He read the rest of the letter, as always running his fingers over the signature at the end as if it was a miracle in writing. It _was_ a miracle—if this was the closest he might ever get to knowing his mother, then at least he knew her name.

 _Padmé Naberrie._

Even after he'd read it, and reread it, and reread it some more, he stayed sitting there for a long time, just watching the horizon. Wondering whether his sister and mother were watching that same horizon, and looking right back at him.

* * *

Finally.

After nearly twenty years of hunting him, of tracking the old man's movements through the Empire, plotting and scheming and seething over false lead after false lead. . . He'd _finally_ found him.

Obi-Wan Kenobi—or, as the residents of this tiny, _insignificant_ backwater port called him, "Old Ben"—had been seen wandering down a street in the more rundown area of town, spending a substantial amount of time inside the blacksmith's there before leaving. No one they'd interrogated had revealed—or even _known_ —the location of Kenobi's residence, but that blacksmith's was as good a place as any to start.

He was close. He could feel it.

Vader didn't bother to be subtle as his troopers marched down the street. If people wondered, let them wonder. Let them see what the consequences of defying their Empire were.

And _oh_ , he _remembered this forge_.

The moment he stood in front of it, he knew.

This was the Lars forge. Owen, Cliegg, Watto, _his mother_ —

He would enjoy burning this place to the ground.

The door was shut, but he didn't bother pushing it open—he kicked it down, the wood splintering easily under his good foot and slamming to the floor. All the carpentry in this area was pathetic.

The kick had created a racket, so Owen was already storming out of his forge into the front room, Beru pale from fear at the sight of the soldiers that filed in. Vader strolled leisurely forward, smiling in a way that was far from reassuring; he saw recognition flash across both their faces as they exchanged a glance.

"Lord Vader," Owen said slowly, muscles working in his throat. So, they knew who he had become. Who had told them?

The answer was obvious. _Kenobi_.

"Owen Lars," he said coldly. His step-brother flinched. "You, and all residents of this household, are accused of assisting a fugitive from the Empire, and must prepare to face the punishment."

" _Assisting a fugitive from the Empire_?" It was Beru who asked, almost mockingly. She had more backbone than he'd given her credit for— _just like_ her _,_ came to mind, unbidden—and her voice was unflinching even as her husband's mouth flapped soundlessly. "We have done no such thing! You have no right—"

"But I do," he cut her off with a wave of his metal hand. He may respect her backbone, but that didn't mean he respected _her_. "You have been accused, on solid terms, of aiding a known fugitive. Or do you deny that Obi-Wan Kenobi came into this very shop only a few hours ago?"

Owen's mouth dropped open before he spluttered, " _Old Ben_ Kenobi came _into_ the shop, but I didn't help him! I sent him packing!"

"And yet we know that he _did_ receive assistance here," Vader continued. He couldn't deny that he was enjoying this—enjoying making the people who'd allowed his mother to die suffer. "So if it wasn't one of you, who was it?"

Owen and Beru exchanged a look. "Luke. . ." Beru whispered.

"Therefore, you _are_ guilty of conspiring with an enemy of the Empire, rebellious activity and treason, and shall receive the punishment for it." He gave a hand signal to his men, who cocked their rifles. "Prepare to fire."

"No!" Owen shouted. "Beru, get into the backroom!"

" _Fire_!"

The volley of shots went off; Owen, halfway through the doorway to the forge itself, collapsed from a shot to the head. There was a shrill scream, then one of his troops shot again and hit Beru between the shoulder blades. There was no more screaming.

"Search the forge for clues about Kenobi's whereabouts," Vader ordered, "then burn it to the ground."

"My lord," one of the troopers objected, "with the design of the houses in this area, a fire in one could spread to them all. The whole street could burn."

Vader turned so his face was inches above the man's, his tall frame filling his vision. His voice was deadly. "I don't care if this whole _island_ burns, trooper," he hissed. "I want this forge burned to the ground, not excuses."

"But, my lord—"

Vader didn't think about it as he pulled out his pistol and shot him

There was a gasp.

Too high-pitched to come from one of his troops. Vader turned.

There was a boy standing in the doorway. A boy with eyes bluer than the sea and sky, skin ruddy from working the forge for years, and a look of utmost horror as he beheld what had happened to Owen and Beru. As he processed what Vader had said.

A son? No—he didn't look anything like either of them. If anything, he looked like Vader himself, though that was a comparison that irked him. An apprentice, then.

Owen had said that neither he nor Beru had helped Kenobi.

 _Someone_ in the forge had to.

And an apprentice—the _Luke_ Owen had mentioned. . .

Vader narrowed his eyes. "Get him."

The boy—Luke's—eyes flew wide at the order, at the troopers converging on him with rifles raised and ready. And he fled.

"After him!" Vader barked, quick to make chase. That boy had helped Obi-Wan—likely knew where the man was hiding. He needed to find him—

But when they made it out onto the cobbled street, he seemed to have vanished into thin air.


	2. Runaway

Luke heart was beating a brand against his ribcage, but he tried to steady his breathing. If he didn't, he'd be caught.

Even if flashes of the forge were coming to mind, Uncle Owen's lifeless body, the mangled mess left of Aunt Beru's—

He squeezed his eyes shut as quick, orderly footsteps jogged past him. He'd sequestered himself away in the deepest, darkest alleyways he could find and run through there trying to avoid the regiments of troopers that kept marching past. They didn't seem to be looking for anyone to a casual observer, but he'd overheard one of their conversations as they passed too close to his hiding place for comfort. They were still on the alert for him.

But. . . _why_?

Why, why kill his aunt and uncle, why burn the forge, why _hunt him down_? What had they done?

What was going on?

Tears leaked out from under his eyelids; he didn't dare try to wipe them away. His hands were filthy from all the mud he'd had to crawl through, and he didn't want any motion to give away his position, behind the bins, in the dirt just round the corner of the main street.

Because the footsteps were getting closer.

He buried his face in his knees as the two troopers came into the alleyway. Their off-white uniforms brought the image of Biggs, shining and laughing in a sun that had long since ducked behind clouds, wearing _that same uniform_ , to mind. Would he ever see his friend again?

The two troopers were coming closer still. They'd almost passed his hiding place—he could see their torsos, the low-slung belts, the pistol and cutlass they both had sheathed there. So close. Only a few moments, then they'd pass by—

"Hey, who're you?"

He'd been spotted.

There was a hand in his hair, and he was yanked out in the open none-too-gently, a snarl easily rising to his lips.

"It's the kid—!"

He didn't give them any more than that moment. One of the man's cutlasses had its hilt at his eye level; he reached out and ripped it from the sheath, holding it out in front of him.

The trooper he'd stolen it from scoffed. "You've got to be kidding—"

He swung the cutlass, Uncle Owen's voice ringing in his mind— _What do you think you're doing? Aim for the body, boy, not the blade_ —and the trooper's words were cut off with a bloody gargle. His white clothes blossomed red.

The other trooper was staring at him. "You—"

Luke was already running.

Running, running away from the fact that he'd just _killed someone_ , that there was a stolen cutlass in his hands, that there was a vengeful Imperial trooper on his heels who he'd have to lose in the maze of alleyways.

But what was the point?

The thought flashed into his mind as he darted round a corner, into a thinner, even more disgusting alleyway; he stumbled, only to quickly regain his balance and _keep running_.

Even as he wondered: What was the point of running?

Uncle Owen was dead. Aunt Beru was dead. He had no idea _why_ he was even running—or why he'd just killed someone. All he knew was that he was scared and lost and alone. He had nowhere to go.

 _Nowhere to go. . ._

 _Alone. . ._

 _Solo. . ._

Han Solo.

A smuggler keen to avoid Imperials. Who had a ship in the second port, far away from Vader. Who might— _might_ —help him.

He swallowed, his breath already a flame in his throat, then abruptly turned right at the intersection he'd expected to go left at.

He needed to go to Mos Eisley.

* * *

He'd long since lost his pursuer, so by the time he'd reached Mos Eisley Port he'd allowed his pace to slow. His lungs no longer felt like they were trying to eject themselves from his chest.

It was raining lightly as he scanned the docks, eyes eventually alighting on a small vessel— _much_ smaller than one of the Imperial ships—docked at the end. It seemed to be falling apart at the seams, whatever paint it'd once had long since scraped off. Its two sails were closer to yellow than they were to white, greyish and saggy in the damp.

But even from this distance he could see the name painted on the side: _Millennium Falcon_.

He released the breath he hadn't realised he was holding, and set off forward.

This place was a lot more rundown than Bestine Port, but that just meant it repulsed Imperials—and attracted smugglers and other criminals. The owner of it made a good deal of money accepting bribes and keeping his mouth shut when he saw unsavoury business going on.

It all conspired to set Luke a little on edge, a little off-kilter, as he jogged through it. But it was a short time before he was standing in front of the ship's hull—carved in the shape of a falcon, funnily enough—and peered up. He squinted against the rain.

There was a man standing on the edge of the deck; Luke could see him silhouetted against the clouds. Incredibly tall, and not quite broad enough for his height, even from this angle Luke could tell he would tower over him. It wasn't Han Solo.

 _Have I got the wrong ship?_

 _Please, please say I haven't got the wrong ship. . ._

The figure lumbered closer to the edge and peered over, looking straight at Luke. He fought the urge not to fidget under the gaze.

The figure turned, and roared something indiscernible. There was another, sharper shout—this time in a timbre Luke recognised. _That_ was Han Solo.

He let out a sigh of relief.

"Kid?" Solo was jogging down the gangplank now, a lopsided but slightly awkward grin fixed to his face. "You came? I didn't expect—"

He paused, then, when he got a clear sight of Luke. The tear tracks on his face. The blood on his shirt.

"Please," Luke said, and his voice cracked on the word. "I need your help."

Instantly, Solo threw his hands up and backed away. "Oh no," he said. "If you've got any trouble, I want no part of it, alright? I've got my own problems to worry about."

" _Please_ ," Luke repeated, a fresh rush of tears burning his eyes. He took a step forward; Solo took another step back. His hand twitched towards the pistol at his side, and Luke froze, his hands creeping up.

"Please," he whispered once more. Rain spattered onto the back of his neck and down his back. "My aunt and uncle are dead. I don't know why they were killed, they didn't do anything. I don't have anywhere else to go." A beat. Solo didn't try to shoot him, so he pressed, "Take me with you. Just to the next port. I don't have any money, but I can fight, if you need an extra pair of hands—"

"Why do you wanna go to the next port?" Solo still looked sceptical, but now he looked. . . uncomfortable. . . as well. "Don't you have friends here you can turn to?"

 _Because I'm being_ chased _here_ , he almost said, but swallowed the words. Something told him they wouldn't help his case. "No," he said instead. It wasn't a lie—Biggs would be leaving soon, and neither Camie nor any of the others were good enough friends to take him in at risk to themselves.

The thought made him cry all over again. No one—he had no one at all.

"Please," he croaked. It was the only word he could cling to. "I don't— I don't know what they'll do to me if they find me." That trooper's shouted threats during the chase hadn't helped his optimism.

Solo froze at the words. " _They_?" he asked. "Who's _they_? Whoever it is, I already have a big enough target on my back as it is—"

"No!" Luke lunged forward, only to freeze again as Han's hand twitched again. "No, please, it's the Imperials, you're already in trouble with them, aren't you? This won't change anything."

"I have a tiny bounty on my head for smuggling," Solo retorted. "If they're bothering to chase you, you're in real deep. I'm not getting involved."

"Please." Luke was shaking his head now, his breathing ragged. He was having a full-blown meltdown in the middle of the port, and no one was looking, no one even _cared_ — "Please, Solo, _please_ —"

"Han," he corrected automatically, "but that doesn't matter! Get out of my sight, before you bring them down on all our heads!"

And Luke could only watch as Han, his only hope, turned to walk back up the gangplank.

Only to find his way blocked by the tall silhouette from earlier.

It was a man with long, scraggly brown hair and wrinkled brown skin, a weapon's belt slung across his chest like an accessory—albeit an accessory loaded with the biggest pistol Luke had ever laid eyes on. When he spoke, it was in a guttural language Luke didn't understand.

Han clearly did, though, because he scowled. "You're kidding, Chewie, we can barely take care of ourselves—"

The man—Chewie—cut him off with a snarl. One pointed finger had never looked so deadly, but when he pointed it at Han it seemed almost reprimanding, in a fatherly way. It made Han huff.

"I _know_ he needs our help, he made _that_ clear enough, but—"

Chewie growled something else. Then something else.

Han's shoulders slumped. He looked from Chewie, to Luke, then back again.

Then he walked back down the gangplank.

"Guess you're coming with us after all, kid," he drawled, _clearly_ not happy with the situation. "As long as you want, even— _apparently_ we've been needing a second mate to climb the rigging and help fight off pirates. What do you say?"

It was an obsolete question—after all that begging, there was no way Luke was going to say no. But he appreciated the attempt at grace, anyway.

So he dried his tears, let a smile curve his lips, and said, "Fighting pirates? I'm in."

* * *

Over the years, many of his adult acquaintances had come to the conclusion that Luke Skywalker was not an easy person to find when he didn't want to be found. But, somehow, Obi-Wan Kenobi had made do.

He'd seen the blood on Luke's shirt, heard what had happened at the blacksmith's, and now he'd seen Luke's confrontation with the smuggler. Chewbacca had convinced Solo to help him—good. Chewie was a good man. Ahsoka would be proud.

If he ended up taking Luke under his wing—as he was famous for doing to all lost souls, among the Jedi who knew wholly good people when they saw them—then Luke would probably be fine.

But Obi-Wan couldn't take that risk. Not with Ana— _Vader_ having come so close to finding the boy.

Solo hadn't finished packing away the barrels of cargo by the time he'd had his conversation with Luke. It was a simple matter to hide in one of them, and stow away aboard the ship.

* * *

"So what's your name, anyway?"

Luke turned away from his vigil at the bow to see Han standing a few steps behind him.

"Luke," he said quietly, turning his gaze back to the sea when he joined him at the edge. The stars were a lot brighter at sea. "Luke Skywalker."

Han nodded. "Han Solo—though I guess you already knew that." Luke took it as the joke he was fairly sure it was meant to be, and laughed to himself for a moment, before it died down again.

"Now, uh, Chewie wanted to know why the Imperials are after you," Han said after a moment.

There was a sniggering sound from the crows' nest, where Chewbacca was on the night watch. He shouted something down to Han—Luke recognised the language as Shyriiwook, now, but he still couldn't speak it—who scowled.

Luke answered his question before Han got even more embarrassed. "I don't know," he admitted. "I'd just arrived home when I found all the troopers in the shop and my aunt and uncle dead on the floor. That blond man was leading them. Vader."

" _Vader_?"

Luke nodded. "Yeah. But I don't know what interest he'd have in the forge." His slid his gaze sideways. "Was he chasing you and we got caught in the middle?"

Han scoffed at the very idea. "No. Vader hasn't got time to chase after a common smuggler like me."

"Well, I don't know why he'd be after us, then."

Han studied him for a moment more, then looked like he was about to say something, only for Luke to let out a gasp.

"Look."

It was barely a flash of colour against the night that swooped over their heads, but Luke knew what it was anyway. Had studied pictures of the birds that so often graced maritime legends, the scarlet plumage on their tails and the tips of their wings, the shape of their feathers and the shape of their flight. He knew they were common, but. . . it was awe-inspiring to see them up close.

"Starbirds," Han said dismissively.

Luke would not be deterred. "I've heard stories about them," he was saying almost before he registered talking, his enthusiasm practically _bubbling_ out of them. "I used to read all these old legends—that they're Amidala's handmaidens, that they're the souls of dead sailors or dead loved ones come to guide your way. They're the symbol of the Rebellion for a reason."

"Just a load of nonsense." Han scoffed again at the thought of it. "And the Rebellion's a bunch of suicidal fools who think fighting the Empire's actually gonna change anything. They're exactly the sort of people to believe in ghost stories."

"They're not—" Luke bit his tongue. He'd already made it clear how passionate about this he was; if Han could see that, and still condemn it, then no outburst from him would ever change that. "They're interesting. I like stories."

"You like the sea." It wasn't a question.

Luke nodded. "I always wanted to sail. The forge was all work, and I liked training with swords, but that was the only thing. I loved my aunt and uncle, but. . . I wasn't happy. I want to be out here, travelling, seeing the world. Just like my father."

By now Han sounded tired, and grumpy, but he indulged Luke anyway with, "Your father?"

"Old Ben told me he was a Jedi."

Han snorted at that. Loudly. "Why am I not surprised?"

"What, do you have something against the Jedi?"

"Nah. I just think a band of mercenaries travelling round and _doing good_ with raised swords is a whole load of poodoo. There ain't any heroes on the high seas, only pirates and people who don't belong here."

The words struck a note in Luke's chest. _There ain't any heroes on the high seas._

Han wandered off, below decks, but Luke stayed. The rainclouds from earlier had all cleared. The moonlight was bright, tonight.

"You're right," Luke said quietly to the wind.

Two starbirds were dancing in the air above him now. _The souls of dead loved ones come to guide your way._

 _Uncle Owen. Aunt Beru._

He bowed his head.

The Jedi had been all but wiped out with the rise of the Empire. He knew that. He didn't know when or how they'd been decimated, but after that they hadn't had the strength to stand again a behemoth demanding all trade be licensed with them, conquering anyone who disagreed.

"There aren't any heroes on the high seas," he murmured, surprised at the stinging in his eyes. Silver moon, silver waves, silver tears: he was living in a world of quicksilver, and it was all slipping away from him. The cutlass he'd stolen earlier was still heavy at his hip. "Not anymore."

* * *

"My lord, we have completed the search of the forge, as well as the city."

"Have you found Kenobi?" He turned sharply on his heel to face the lieutenant, the words barely more than a growl. "The blacksmith's boy?"

He could tell by the sheer terror on the man's face, the way his gaze kept flicking to the silver-handled pistol at his belt, that he hadn't.

"Have you found _anything_ of use to me?"

"We— We have found numerous oddities inside the forge and the blacksmiths' living quarters," he stammered. "We weren't— we weren't sure if they were just personal things, or if—" He took a breath. "Or if it was anything of value. We've collected them—"

"Bring them in here." He gestured around his cabin, the surprisingly large living quarters. Then again, considering they were for the Supreme Commander of the Imperial Navy, perhaps it wasn't so surprising. "I shall inspect them myself."

The lieutenant saw the chance to escape, and seized it with both hands. "Yes, my lord," he said, then scurried off.

The chest of items was brought in, and Vader sat straight-backed at his desk, eyeing it. There was likely nothing of interest in there, but he had to be thorough—

His breath caught the moment he saw the item on the top.

It had been years since he saw it, the blade long since dulled and rusted, the insignia of the Jedi Order barely visible. But he remembered it.

He remembered it.

He wrapped his hand round the hilt slowly, carefully, feeling the memories rush over him. The wind tugging at his hair, Obi-Wan's laughter carrying up to the rigging, the fingers of Padmé's left hand tangling with his mechanical right—

His mood soured abruptly. Unconsciously, his fingers brushed the japor snippet that always hung at his neck.

Why did the boy have his old sword in the forge? What use could he have for it? Who had given it to him?

That, Vader could guess. _Obi-Wan._

But _why_?

"My lord!" another trooper cried, standing to attention at the door. "We have completed our search of the town and offered rewards; no one has come forward about the description you offered for the boy."

Vader paused. "But?"

"But an old man was sighted at Mos Eisley," the trooper continued smartly. "We believe it might be Kenobi, but the troops who went there to sweep the harbour and found nothing, even with the blockade in place."

Vader hadn't been hasty enough in setting up the blockade—he'd known that when he did it, and he knew it now. But Mos Eisley was a tiny port, so he asked tightly, "Do the records say what ships left the harbour before the blockade was put in place?"

"Only one ship left after Kenobi was sighted and before the blockade," the trooper said promptly. "The _Millennium Falcon_. Captain: Han Solo."

Solo.

Han Solo.

That name sounded familiar.

"Solo was one of Owen Lars's clients, was he not?" he mused. "His name was in the log book." That had been the first thing they checked—the first thing to burn, as well.

"Yes, my lord."

Owen's obsession with propriety was working in his favour. Kenobi, Lars, Solo.

He glanced down at his old sword— _Anakin's_ sword.

Kenobi, Lars, Solo and Skywalker.

Something was amiss here.

"Do the Mos Eisley records offer a destination for the _Millennium Falcon_?"

"No, my lord. However, it _is_ recorded that Solo is transporting a considerable amount of rum."

Vader smiled, then, and the trooper knew he understood.

It was fairly obvious Solo was a smuggler. And when smugglers were involved with rum, it usually meant they were going to drink it, or sell it for astronomical prices. Considering the _Millennium Falcon_ 's recorded crew of two, it was unlikely they would drink all of it.

But there were only a handle of people they could sell it to who would make it worth their money. Trading companies that specialised in alcohol were usually a good bet, and the only trading company's base nearby here was—

"Mindor," Vader ordered. "Set course for Mindor." He had pending orders from the Emperor to sack Alderaan then return to Coruscant as soon as possible for some _discussion_ , but he was sure whatever it was could wait until _after_ he'd had his revenge on Kenobi. By the time he got to Coruscant and back, the trail would have long since gone cold. _Especially_ considering he would be changing his flagship when he next went, which would only extend the procedure.

"Yes, my lord." The trooper snapped a sharp salute, then turned to leave.

"Plot a straight course," Vader added before he could. "Get us there as fast as possible. If the smuggler's taken the route his ilk usually take, we can get there first."

"Sir," the trooper's face was wary; contradicting Lord Vader was practically a death sentence, "the wind is against us. We can't plot a straight course there. We'll have to plot a different course, or wait for the winds to change."

 _The wind is against us_.

The words rippled through him; for a moment, he just stared at the trooper, unable to comprehend what he'd said. Because that. . . that was impossible.

"Sir?" the trooper queried, and Vader snapped himself out of it.

"Plot a different course then," he snarled, "just get us there as fast as possible."

He didn't wait for the troopers answering salute, or for him to turn to leave; he just yanked the japor snippet out from under his shirt and held it up to the light.

A flick of his finger had it spinning. The carved markings were still the same, no scratches, no changes. They were identical to what they'd said when he'd carved it, all those years ago, nothing but love and hope and desire in his heart.

The wind was against them. For the first time in _years_ , the nature of the sea wasn't cooperating with his demands.

He tucked it back under his shirt again, scowling. Dissatisfied. Because something was definitely amiss here.

But maybe when they got to Mindor, he'd find out what.


	3. Under Fire

Mindor was a strange—and infamous—island in that it was surrounded by rocks. Sharp rocks, running close under the surface. They sailed past the wreckages of the many, _many_ ships that had run aground there on the way in. Their masts were rotting, creaking, their sails ghostly rags hanging off the yards like cobwebs. Although the day was hot, Luke shivered.

"How do you know we're not going to run aground?" he called to Han, at the helm. The man's concentration was evident in the tautness of his face and the tightness of his voice.

"There's only one safe path into here," he growled. "For the big ships, at least. There might be another path the _Falcon_ is small and shallow enough to take across the rocks—the way she did at Kessel—but I ain't risking it. We go down this path, with those two palm trees directly ahead of us."

Luke peered over, and sure enough, he could see two great palms crossed over each other on the shore. _X marks the spot_ , he thought. "We're following _trees_?"

"Shut up and let me focus, kid."

It'd taken them longer to get here than expected—apparently the more direct route most ships took drifted a little too close to Imperial strongholds for comfort. Han had said they were stopping off at Mindor briefly just to carry out a quick business transaction. Some of their cargo, for fresh supplies to get to their next destination with. He'd also said there was no need for Luke to be there; the last thing he wanted was Luke's obvious inexperience getting in the way of his deal.

But Luke was up on the deck anyway when the time came to dock. He wanted to see this happen.

Han understood. But that didn't mean he was happy about it.

"Look, kid, I get you want to see new lands and all that, but can you watch from out of sight while I take in the little boat? I don't want my contacts thinking I'm spying on them or something."

Luke grumbled lightly to himself, but did as he asked, moving away to the back of the ship.

"And don't let me catch you stealing anymore food!" Han added. "I can hear Chewie's stomach grumbling from here!"

"I haven't stolen _any_ food!" he shouted back, then rolled his eyes as he leaned against the helm. The massive wheel was taller than he was, its eight spokes thicker than his arms. He didn't envy Han having to wrestle with that in high winds, he mused. Or maybe he got Chewie to do it then; the man certainly _looked_ strong. . .

His gaze drifted out to sea while his mind wandered, and that was when he first saw the shadows.

He squinted at them, the haze of the sun off the water distorting the silhouettes. Several of them, he made out through the shimmer. Several silhouettes too indistinct to count. They looked like ships.

But Han had said no one came here except outlaws, and outlaws tended not to travel with small fleets.

"Han?" he asked. "Han! Chewie!"

A shout in Shyriiwook was his only reply, Chewie cocking his head.

Luke pointed at the horizon wildly. "Look!"

Chewie looked. Then unleashed a string of curses even Luke could tell were foul.

He roared down to Han, still struggling with the capstan to lower the little boat, who jerked his head up, scowling. "What!"

More roaring.

"So what if there's another ship? We ain't the only smugglers around!"

Chewie shook his head, waving his arm. Luke still didn't understand a word of what he was saying, but he got the gist anyway: _See for yourself_.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Han muttered, taking the steps two at a time. He joined Luke at the helm, peering out and muttering, "What's so special about these sails. . ."

He trailed off the moment he saw what Luke saw.

The ships were getting closer now, their white sails clearly distinguishable, as well as the red and black insignia stamped on them.

And the crimson main sail of the largest.

Han swore. " _Vader_."

The bottom dropped out of Luke's stomach. No, he was supposed have _escaped_ this, left it behind in the ruins of the forge, not here, not now—

Han's head snapped towards his.

"He's chased you from Tatooine to here," he snarled, grabbing a fistful of Luke hair. Luke yelped, struggled to get free—only to still when a sword was laid across his throat. "And there's no way we're getting free with him blocking the only safe passage in."

"You know. . ." Han was shaking, head to toe, his gaze flitting between the ships and Luke. He was afraid. "Maybe he just wants you. Maybe he'll let us go if—"

"You know that's not true, Han," Luke said quickly. He dared not move his jaw too much—dared not _breathe_ too much. He didn't want to impale himself on the blade. "He'll kill me, then he'll kill you and Chewie, then he'll burn your ship. Vader is ruthless." _And infamous for it, even to a boy who's never left Tatooine._

"Then why aren't they blowing us outta the water?" Han snarled back. "They want you alive, for some reason—they won't kill me."

"It's _Vader_ , Han," Luke begged. "You _know_ that's not true."

There was a pause. "And I suppose you have a better idea?" Han's voice was scornful, but he slackened his grip on his hair, and even Luke could hear the hope.

He _didn't_ have a better idea, but his mind raced anyway, thinking, thinking—

"You said this was the only safe passage," he panted, "for a ship like _Vader's_. Not this ship. We're smaller. We can get over the rocks and he won't be able to follow. He'd have to sail round the rest of the island in order to catch us, and by then we're gone with the wind."

"That's insane," Han scoffed. "There's no guarantee we could ever make it over the rocks; one wrong turn'll send us to the bottom of the sea."

"Well a few more moments wasted will send us there as well once Vader catches up!" He yanked his head away from the blade, out of Han's loosened grip, taking a step back. "So get that _thing_ out of my face and _do something_!"

Han was breathing heavily as well, gaze fixated on Luke but not _looking at_ Luke. "You said we can get over the rocks."

"Theoretically."

Despite everything, Han laughed. It was more relief, a release of tension, than humour, but Luke appreciated it all the same. "You're crazy, kid," he said, then shouted, "Chewie! We're going over the rocks!"

Chewie roared; Han argued back. "I know, I know—but it's the only chance we've got! Just get to it, fuzzball." He grabbed for the helm, slanting Luke a look. "This had better work," he muttered, then barked at Luke, "Get into the cellars and throw out any unnecessary weight, we want to be as shallow in the water as possible."

"Even the rum?"

" _Especially_ the rum," Han muttered, though it looked like it pained him to say it. He cast a baleful look at the shore. "I don't think my contacts are gonna bargain with me anymore now I've brought the Empire down on 'em."

Luke just nodded sharply, and leapt down the stairs.

It was a few strides to the mizzen hatch, then he threw it open, his heart pounding in his chest. He heaved the great barrels out with the rope— _gods_ they were heavy—and with a snap sent them rolling over the side. He heard them hit the water; saw the spray shoot up. _Three down. . ._

And so it continued. They heaved and hoed, the _Falcon_ cut off the safe path and began to drift to the side. Everything shuddered—the boat, the barrels, Luke's innards—when they scraped by a rock, but it hadn't punctured yet, _thank Amidala. . ._

"They're gaining on us!" Han shouted; Luke chanced a glance over his shoulder. Sure enough, the _Devastator_ was almost sailing right alongside them now, rocks or no rocks—he could almost see the individual faces of the sailors scurrying about—

And then he could, and his heart stilled.

Biggs.

That was _Biggs_ on that ship, standing stock-still, staring at Luke agape. Someone shouted at him and he lunged into action, his movements wooden and jerky, but he was still staring at Luke, and Luke was staring back.

He was distracted enough that he didn't notice the grappling hooks soaring through the air until they hit.

 _Thump, thump, thump_ —most of them landed true, impaled on the sides, the lines snapping taut.

 _No._

No, no, no—he knew this tactic, _everyone_ knew this tactic, they taught it in schools as part of Imperial history. It was how the Empire had gained control of the seas so quickly: they had so many men aboard their ships, they didn't _need_ to shoot them down with their superior cannons. Then they couldn't use the ship later. They just threw the grappling hooks, let the soldiers climb over, and took the ships like that.

Luke knew that tactic.

Han evidently did as well.

"Kid, get that cutlass of yours and _start cutting_!"

He did. He was running before he was thinking, yanking the stolen cutlass from his belt. The ship lurched under yet _another_ rock; he stumbled, nearly cut himself open on the blade, kept running.

The first grappling hook was in front of him. Someone was already clinging to the rope, trying to climb across.

He brought his sword down on it.

With the extra weight, it was already strained and taut; it snapped easily. He ignored the trooper's scream as he fell into the sea below—at least, he tried to. First the trooper in Tatooine, now him. How many people would he kill in the next week alone?

Then he banished the thought and swung his cutlass at the second one. This took two swings, but it was down soon enough as well.

But the grappling hooks kept coming, and so did the troopers. He couldn't take them all on his own.

"Chewie! Help him!"

Chewie answered with a barked comment, but Luke wasn't listening anymore. He wasn't listening, because he hadn't got to this latest rope in time and there was a trooper standing on the deck, grinning at him, pulling his cutlass. And then he was swinging it.

Luke caught the blow on his own, and the sound awoke something in him.

Like the sparks that flew when metal collided in the forge, like the clash of training sword on sword. He knew this. This was his element.

Whether they were in his dim room, or the rolling deck of the ship, _this was his element_.

The trooper swung again. Luke deflected the blow, took his own. Blood bloomed, bright against the trooper's off-white uniform.

Troopers were worthless as individuals—he knew that, everyone knew that. The Empire's strength was in numbers, not skill.

That didn't quash the surprise Luke felt a minute later when he administered the final blow, and the third person he'd ever killed slumped to the deck.

He allowed guilt to paralyse him for a moment—just a moment!—then he snapped back into action. He had a job to do.

Chewie had taken care of most of the ropes with several _very_ well-placed shots from his strangely massive pistol; there were only two left. Luke swung at one, watched it fall into the sea. The other. . .

The other. . .

Once again, he caught Biggs's eye across the gap. His friend was deathly pale, _frightened_. After a moment, Luke saw why.

There was a man behind him, pushing him forward. To climb onto the rope and board.

Biggs looked at Luke, then at the man, then back at Luke.

A wind gusted from the stern, billowing the _Falcon_ 's sails and sending them lurching forward. Han shouted in triumph, Luke struggled not to fall over—then they lurched again.

The final rope was pulled taut, fraying but not fast enough, pulling them off course and—

And right into a rock.

He could see it—it was one of the few that were above the water, not below it. If they hit that rock at this speed, the whole ship would buckle. There was no way they'd escape Vader with that sort of damage. All of this would be for nothing.

Luke realised it, and he saw the moment Biggs realised it too.

His friend met his gaze, unwavering.

If the _Falcon_ hit that rock, everyone on board would drown or be captured.

So Biggs drew his sword, and brought it down on the last rope.

The ship jumped free. Luke was sent careening; he fell onto his back, _hard_ , but he was laughing. He was laughing, and Han was laughing, and Chewie was laughing. The sheer _relief_ was overwhelming.

But it wasn't over yet.

"Get up, kid, we still need to get outta here!" Han's arms were straining against the helm, doing his utmost to keep the wheel from spinning out of control— "If they start firing on us we're dead meat! Get back to dumping cargo!"

Because running aground was still a very real risk.

So Luke dived back into the cellar, only to find the barrels, usually stacked and thrashed down in the corner, right where he could access them easily.

And an old man standing keeping them steady, a wry half-smile twisting his face when he caught sight of Luke.

Luke blinked. "Ben?"

* * *

"That was one hell of a plan, kid," Han started to say once Mindor was safely out of sight, lumbering towards him with an uncharacteristic joviality. "We actually got away. I'm almost imp— Who the hell is that?"

"This is Ben Kenobi," Luke said. "He's an old hermit from Tatooine. Apparently he stowed away on board."

Han turned his cutting gaze on Ben, all mirth gone. " _Really_?"

Chewie roared something. Han nodded his agreement. "I think so too, Chewie. I say we just—"

"I came for Luke."

A moment of silence as they all blinked at each other.

It was Luke who broke it. "You _what_?"

Ben's clear-eyed gaze shifted onto him—hadn't left him, actually, except to appraise Han. "I saw the forge burning when I was coming back to talk to you about your father. I wanted to see if you were alright."

"And I suppose you couldn't 'a done that earlier?" Han asked tightly, a bitter grin on his face. Luke noticed, alarmed, that he had his pistol out and cocked. "You had to stow away?"

Ben met his look, unflinching. "I had no guarantee that you would allow me to travel with you."

"I always find money's as good a guarantee as any."

"I wouldn't have been able to pay you upfront," Ben countered. His Coruscanti accent seemed to get stronger by the moment. "Would you have accepted a payment once we reached a destination?"

Han begrudgingly lowered his pistol. "Only if I was desperate," he conceded. "But here's Luke. He's alright. Now get off my ship."

Ben cast a disdainful look out to sea. "And go where? Into the ocean?"

"Fine by me."

"I'll pay you seventeen thousand gold pieces if you take me to Alderaan. _Once_ we're at Alderaan." His eyes flicked to Luke, then back to Han. "You'll need to go there anyway, considering you didn't manage to pick up fresh supplies at Mindor."

"I _know_ where I need to go!" Han snapped, but he didn't refute the point.

Instead, he just watched Ben closely. "Seventeen thousand, huh?" Ben nodded. "Alright, you've got yourself a deal. We—" He gestured to himself, Chewie _and_ Luke at the word; Luke couldn't contain his grin at the sort of acceptance there. "—will take you to Alderaan, if you pay us seventeen thousand credits," he leaned forward, "and tell us why Vader's chasing you."

As an afterthought, he nodded to Luke. " _And_ what it has to do with the kid's father."

"What?" Luke couldn't follow this.

Han was still watching Ben like a hawk. "He said he wanted to talk to you about your father, right?"

Luke nodded. "Yeah—he'd come by the forge earlier that day, and—"

"Well there we go." Han smirked. "Vader wasn't after you, _or_ your aunt and uncle. He was after _him_ ," he poked Ben with the barrel of his pistol, "and your family got caught in the crossfire."

Luke was staring at Ben, now. "Is that true?"

He had never seen the old man look so. . . _uncomfortable_. For the first time, his veneer of unruffled serenity was starting to slip.

"Yes," he admitted.

"Exactly," Han said. "And he didn't come aboard to protect you. He saw an opportunity to escape, and he took it." Chewie, coming up behind him, roared his agreement.

"I resent that," Ben said, surprisingly mildly. The serenity was back. "I _did_ come to help Luke—you're more embroiled in this than you realise." He said it directly to him; Luke swallowed, unnerved by all the attention suddenly fixated on him. "Vader wasn't directly after your aunt and uncle, but he wasn't fond of them. He probably enjoyed watching them die."

"My aunt and uncle knew Vader?" His voice was weak; his head was spinning. He was hyperaware of Han and Chewie watching him. Wondering if their decision to take him on had only painted targets on their backs. "What is _going on_?" His voice broke on the words.

Ben's gaze was oddly sympathetic. "I'll tell you when we reach Alderaan. There's someone there you need to meet."

"My mother?"

The words jumped out before he could stop them. His mother, the constant but distant presence in his life. His father was dead, all he had of him were stories and heirlooms, and it _hurt_ that he'd never know him, he wanted to make him proud, but his _mother_. . .

He knew her through letters. He knew the curls of her handwriting, her turns of phrase, her favourite colour. But he didn't know _her_ , and he wanted to.

The more he had, the more he wanted, and he _wanted so much_.

Something in his chest was crushed to dust by the shake of Ben's head.

"No," he said. "Someone else."

The devastation must have shown in his face, because Han seemed to overcome his misgivings long enough to pat him on the shoulder.

"Come on, kid," he said almost gently. "I need you up on the yards. We gotta catch a fair wind to reach Alderaan before the supplies run out."

Luke flashed him a grateful smile, and nodded. "Let's go then."

* * *

" _What is the meaning of this?_ "

The troopers all assembled in a line across the deck flinched with every syllable. Vader didn't care. He stalked up and down the line, still shouting

"You are the Imperial fleet. You had your prey cornered. _How did they escape?_ "

"My lord," the _Devastator_ 's captain, Piett, cut in. "The ship in question was smaller than ours, it could escape over the rocks more easily than we could. Not without taking a beating, however, and with the damage they sustained we should be able to catch up to them within—"

"We will not be sailing any further than this, Captain," Vader growled. "We had our orders to remain with the rest of the fleet, then return to Coruscant. I've just received word that my agent on Alderaan has sufficient evidence to incriminate Governor Organa in the Rebellion; we are to sail there and punish him _immediately._ We cannot waste any more time on this detour. Kenobi is a risk to the security of the Empire, and the incompetence of _your_ men ensures he remains at large!"

He took a deep breath, then let a dangerous smile curve his lips. "However, I will admit you are not the only one to blame." His voice grew colder with every syllable. "Apprentice Biggs Darklighter?"

He saw the momentary flash of fear across the apprentice's face, the hitch in his breathing. He saw it all, but it was not enough to sate his anger.

His voice trembled as he said, "Yes, my lord?"

"You know that boy," Vader observed. "The fugitive who was being hunted in Tatooine, whom we both saw fighting on that ship. You know him, yet you didn't turn him in at Tatooine, and you cut the line that allowed them to escape unscathed." He was standing directly in front of him now. Darklighter was by no means a short man, but Vader was taller. _Much_ taller. He cowered in his presence. "Why."

Darklighter must have heard something in his voice, something that told him he wasn't getting out of this—something that told him he had nothing left to lose—because he straightened his back and looked Vader in the eye.

"Because he is my _friend_ ," he hissed. "And no matter how loyal I am to the Empire, to this navy, I will _always_ value an individual who I _know_ has done nothing to deserve this over an unfeeling system."

"He's your friend?" Vader mused, his tone light. "Then, please, tell us his name. It would be a good addition to the bounty now on his head." Technically there wasn't one on there— _yet_. But Darklighter didn't need to know that.

The man clammed up immediately, an obstinate set to his jaw. Vader sighed, and reached for his pistol—

"My lord?"

He turned his attention on Piett, who barely flinched. "What."

The captain's eye, dark with suspicion, were on Darklighter as he said, "Am I correct in guessing that this boy you speak of is blond, slight, with a cleft in his chin?"

Vader tilted his head, curiosity piqued. "Yes," he said softly. The hiss of breath between Darklighter's teeth was all he needed to hear. "You have something to add about him?"

"Only that I met him once. He was standing with Darklighter when I enrolled him in the apprenticeship, and appeared interested in joining the Navy himself."

Now that _was_ interesting. "Go on. What did you learn about him?"

"Only that his parents are dead, and he lives— _lived_ ," Piett amended, "with his uncle, who wouldn't let him sign up. And his name."

Darklighter had stopped breathing. Vader's breaths were still low and heavy, but they too stopped when he heard what Piett said next.

"Luke Skywalker."


	4. Alderaan

**For the worldbuilding starting in this chapter for the rest of the fic, we all have Yelling in Space to thank, I had an absolutely AMAZING conversation with her that really helped this fic, I can't thank her enough for her wonderful ideas :D**

* * *

Ben made clear signs that he wanted to talk to Luke over the next few weeks, as they headed coreward, but Luke did his utmost to avoid him. What Han had said about Ben being the reason for his aunt and uncle's deaths made him. . . uncomfortable. He could rationalise with himself that it was Vader's fault, all Vader, if he wanted revenge he should look to Vader, but. . . he still couldn't look him in the eye.

It was hard to avoid someone on a ship the size of the _Falcon_.

Fortunately, Han and Chewie seemed to pick up on the fact that he really didn't want to talk to Ben, and assigned him an endless list of tasks to busy himself with. It turned out that the two of them, despite extensive modifications, had been struggling for a while to keep the _Falcon_ from sinking. It wasn't designed to be crewed by two people. Hell, it wasn't even designed for _three_.

Hence Luke's massive workload.

He was so exhausted that he tended to hit his bunk in the deckhouse after he was done with the day and pass out. But one night he tossed and turned and couldn't sleep. He just had an ache in his gut, an overwhelming feeling that something wasn't right.

Finally, he decided to have a walk around the deck to assuage his fears. The moonlight and sound of the waves had calmed him the first night; they ought to help now. It was soothing.

Only when he was up and headed for the bow did he realise he wasn't alone. Someone was already there.

It took him moments of squinting at the shadow to work out who it was. Ben. Of course.

A wind stirred slightly, and only then did Ben seem to notice him, turning his head to watch him.

"Hello, Luke."

Luke made to reply, but he didn't know what to say. Then another breeze came, and on it came a sound he never thought he'd hear. He had no idea what it was, but it was deep, mournful, ever so slightly threatening. The hair on the skin of his arms pricked up.

"What was that?" He tried to keep the edge of fear— _uncertainty_ —out of his voice.

"A sea monster. The _cirein-cròin_ , to be precise. They're common in waters nearer to Alderaan."

Ben said it perfectly calmly, but Uncle Owen had had that sort of deadpan voice. It was a good moment before Luke realised he wasn't joking.

" _What_?" Luke asked. His heart raced. "Sea monsters are _real_?"

"Of course. Do you think sailors are such superstitious folk for no reason? Plenty of their stories are nonsense, but there's always a grain of truth to legends. The job of a Jedi Knight was to mediate between humans and the creatures of the deep—Amidala and mankind. Before them, attacks weren't uncommon; now, they're _incredibly_ frequent. Since the Jedi fell, there are whole regions only a rare few people's ships can cross because the creatures simply refuse to let them."

Luke had a sudden memory of Camie avidly describing a story about Vader and his supposed _magical sea powers_. "I don't suppose Vader is one of them?"

"Why do you think the Empire's stranglehold on trade has been so successful? If the only one who can travel traditional trade routes is one of their own, the Empire can force people to go elsewhere—making merchants easier to police. The Jedi were _vital_ to healthy trade."

Luke frowned. "I thought Jedi were warriors of justice. I never heard them as anything else.."

"Common myth and folklore. We were blessed by Amidala herself, Luke. I assure you, we were much more than that."

Luke didn't know what to say to that. He pursed his lips as he leaned against the bow.

That strange, mournful call came again—only now it sounded downright _threatening_.

He said as much, and Ben frowned. "Yes—we're heading through one of the monster regions now."

Luke's throat was dry. "I don't suppose this is the route you mentioned earlier, the one Han didn't wanna take?" According to Han, ships along there never reached their destination, if they even came back at all. Even if it _was_ faster, he'd said, he didn't have a death wish.

"Yes," Ben said calmly. "I adjusted the course after Captain Solo went to sleep. We should be at Alderaan in two days."

"You did _what_?" Luke took a step back. "You're going to kill us all for _speed_?"

"We won't die," Ben insisted. "I am a Jedi. I know these waters, and these creatures know me. They won't attack."

Now that Luke knew what it was, the creature sounded very aggressive indeed—and he had the sudden premonition that it was headed straight for him. "Are you sure? It feels like pretty damn close to attacking to me."

"Then calm it," Ben said. His face was still perfectly straight.

" _What_? How?"

"Stretch out with your feelings."

"How am I supposed to do _that_?"

"You are the—" Ben cut himself off very suddenly, and Luke was left to wonder what he'd meant to say. "You and the sea are connected. That includes its creatures. There's a thread between you; follow it, and calm the beast."

"But how are we connect—"

"Just do it, Luke, before it attacks."

That was a good incentive. Luke felt the wind pick up as he squeezed his eyes shut, unconsciously reaching out his hand. With his mind, he imagined the boat—he could feel it rocking underneath him well enough—then the sea he could hear lapping at the sides. And then _into_ the sea, where—perhaps imaginary, perhaps real—fish swam in the depths. A little way out, and there was something bigger, and bigger. It went on and on. . .

When he touched it, it seemed to buck at the contact, something like _shock_ twanging back down the metaphorical thread and into a part of his mind he'd never used before. He harnessed the shock, clamped down on it— _don't be afraid, I'm not going to hurt you, I don't want you to attack us. . ._

 _It's you_ , he got back, as well as flashes of images and feelings— _blue black shadow silver blue black dark black dark her_ _friend child light bright warm_ —with a sort of clumsiness that spoke of a skill not used in a long time. _It's you._

 _It's me_ , Luke agreed, not sure what he was agreeing to. _Will you attack us?_

 _It's you,_ the reply came, and then he felt the creature swim away, and the connection was broken.

Luke open his eyes, to realise how heavily he was leaning against the prow. He pushed himself off and his head spun. He would've collapsed were it not for Ben's hand on his shoulder, keeping him upright.

"Well done, Luke," he said. "Now, easy. Using sea magic for the first time always leaves you a little dizzy—you'd better go to bed."

"Sea magic? What—"

"Go, Luke." Ben gave a wry smile. "Before Solo wakes up and thinks _you_ had something to do with the course change."

So Luke staggered away, shelving his questions for another day. They fled his mind the moment his head hit the pillow.

* * *

They reached Alderaan two days later, and it was _cold_.

Logically, Luke knew he came from a very hot, sunny climate, and that sailing for this long would probably get him out of that climate, but _still_. It was _cold_.

And were those _mountains_ he could see in the distance? Was that _snow_ on them?

Once they'd docked, Luke just stared. He was vaguely aware of Han jumping to tie the ship up, of Ben wandering off the ship and into the city, of Chewie muttering to himself in Shyriiwook, but he was too busy staring.

Sure, he'd seen Tatooine as they left harbour, seen what it looked like from the sea, with the boats laid out on the horizon like his wooden models on the edge of a blanket, but that _wasn't_ what this was. This was _real_.

And Alderaan was _so much bigger_ than Tatooine.

The capital city sprawled all along the coast, as far as the eye could see. Every inch of land leading up to those faraway mountains had been built on, wrestled and tamed. Already, he could tell that the bustle of Alderaan's ports was greater than Tatooine's by tenfold; here and now, he was fairly sure he could see more people in one moment than he'd ever seen in his whole eighteen years of life.

And _of course_ , he'd _known_ that Alderaan was much bigger, much colder, much more _central_ to the known world than Tatooine was. He'd _known_ it, but never fully understood it to this moment.

It was breathtaking. It was—

His thoughts were cut off by Han's quiet swearing.

"What?" Luke asked, wandering up to him at the helm. Han was peering down at the docks and scowling.

"See that man? With the fancy wig and long tailcoat? That's an Imperial official." He scowled harder. "The moment he notices us as new arrivals, he's gonna come up and demand we hand over a few credits to dock here."

"So?"

" _So_ ," Han dragged out the word, "he's gonna ask for credits _we don't have_. _And_ he's gonna want us to give him a name—for the ship _and_ the captain."

A name for the ship. Given to an Imperial. Just after they'd escaped pursuit by an Imperial vessel.

He swallowed. "Well, what do you usually do when you dock here?"

" _Usually_ it's not Imperial officials coming to register us," he grumbled. "Alderaanians used to be hard to bribe because the economy was so damn good they didn't _need_ to take bribes, but not anymore. They've been having ongoing food shortages for years. I had an arrangement with the last harbourmaster. He always let me dock here for free, so long as I docked so the _Falcon_ 's name was hidden by a jetty or something."

"Then do that."

"I _have_ done that, kid—but what's the use if they're gonna check anyway?"

Luke frowned. "If you like, I could put _my_ name on the list. Technically I'm a part of the crew—" _I hope._ "—and it's not like Vader or anyone knows my name yet."

"A generous offer, Luke," a crisp voice said. Luke turned—Ben was back, from wherever he'd scurried off to when they'd docked. "However, you no longer need to worry about that, fortunately enough."

Han narrowed his eyes at him. "Yeah? And why not?"

"I said you would be paid when we reached Alderaan." Ben reached for his belt—for a small pouch of money that hadn't been there before. He tossed it to Han. "Here you go."

Han's eyebrows shot up as he opened the pouch and peered inside, at the astronomical number written on the coin he pulled out.

He tucked the pouch away into his pocket. "Nice doing business with you, old man." He jerked his chin to Luke. "Come on, kid—let's go bribe the officer then get some fresh supplies. Chewie'll keep watch." Chewie shouted his assent.

"I've already bribed the official," Ben told them. "You can go straight to the market."

Luke noticed some sort of tension in Ben's face at that, but Han just nodded. He didn't seem like one to turn down a gift.

"Alright then," he said, then sketched a mocking bow. "It's been a _pleasure_ , Kenobi, but after you introduce Luke to this mystery person you keep harping on about, I hope I never see you again."

"Han!"

"What?" He just shrugged. "It's true. You coming?"

Despite himself, a smile crept across Luke's lips. "Yeah," he said. "I'm coming."

* * *

Obi-Wan didn't mind bribes. He didn't mind bribing people. But he had something against bribing Imperials.

Just watching the fluffed-up beanpole stalk off with the credits Bail had generously given him put a sour taste in his mouth. But he had to concede, switching his gaze to the boys as they cut through the crowd, that it had been necessary.

If Luke _had_ put his name on the registry. . . If Vader had somehow got ahold of it, found out who Luke was. . .

He shivered, and not just because of the bitter cold. His old friend already terrorised the seas as it was with Padmé locked away from her power. If he found Luke, twisted him to serve the Empire too. . . Well, Luke's natural powers and blessings would be just as effective for evil as they were for good.

Yes, he resolved, the weight in his stomach somehow becoming heavier instead of lighter. It _had_ been necessary.

The world wouldn't survive Vader. Not when he was armed with the son of the sea goddess herself.

* * *

The metal sign marking the local blacksmith's shop creaked in the wind; it had caught Luke's attention the moment they strolled into the market, and had held it ever since.

Once, a customer had come out. Just before the door swung shut, he'd caught a glimpse of racks upon racks of good quality swords, glinting in the light. The cutlass at his side grew heavy.

He wanted a new sword—he _needed_ one. Needed one that didn't look Imperial, that he hadn't gained by killing someone. He had the money on him; surely Han would indulge him, just this once?

Most of the more expensive swords on display were flashier, with more pomp and decorum than Luke was looking for. They reminded him of something out of a storybook—traditional Alderaanian knights, perhaps?—or a warrior culture long dead. But they were expensive, and not what he was looking for.

That was fine. It meant the simple ones were cheaper, and he ended up getting a good quality blade for what little money Han had given him.

When he came out, his step was lighter. At least, until he almost walked into someone.

"Hey! Watch where you're going!"

"I'm sorry!"

The person he'd bumped into—a girl about his age, with brown hair in two buns and a flowing dress that put the feathers on a gull's back to shame—blinked at the sincerity. Then she shook her head.

"Sorry I snapped," she apologised herself. "It's just—this market—"

"I'm not used to it either," he confessed. "I'm not from around here; I've never seen this many people in one place."

"Yeah, well, I _live_ here." She snorted as Luke gently manoeuvred them away from the entrance to the blacksmith's, so they weren't blocking the person who tried to get in. "But I don't get out of the house much. It's depressing, seeing how desperate people are, and how few wares they have left to sell."

Luke didn't really have a response to that—although he had to relate to the depressing part; Tatooine had had its fair share of famines too—so he just shrugged. Searching for something to say, he offered lamely, "I'm Luke."

He wasn't expecting the flash of recognition that flitted over her face, nor the way her eyebrows were raised ever so slightly as she offered him her hand. "Leia."

Luke couldn't hide his own recognition as he took her hand and squeezed it gently. The odds of her being called that— _and recognising his name_ —

Leia laughed—that had been exactly what she'd been waiting for.

"I don't suppose you know someone called Padmé Naberrie?" she teased lightly.

A half-smile twisted his lips. "I've had a few letters from her, yeah. My mother."

" _Our_ mother," she corrected. "I've had letters from her too, you know." They surveyed each other for a moment; Luke realised they were still holding hands, but he didn't want to let go. And neither, apparently, did Leia.

There was a warm feeling in his chest. He didn't want it to die.

Leia tilted her head slightly; her words were wistful. "So you're Luke."

"And you're Leia," he countered. He shook his head, slightly bashful. "I've heard so much about you."

"Likewise." There was another pregnant pause, then Leia shook her head as well. "We're twins."

A laugh escaped him at the thought. "Yeah." A heartbeat, then— "We don't look _anything_ alike."

"No," she agreed. "You're much more tanned—where are you even _from_?"

"Tatooine."

" _Ah_. So what are you doing here?"

That warm feeling chilled instantly. "I— uh." He swallowed. "My uncle's forge was attacked; my aunt and uncle were killed. I barely escaped."

"Oh." Leia didn't seem to know what to say to that. "I'm sorry. Did you _mean_ to come and find me, or—"

"Oh, no," he laughed. "I had no idea where you were. We just came because we had a run in with Vader at Mindor and needed somewhere to stop for supplies."

Leia's smile dropped instantly. "Vader?" She sounded tense— _worried_. " _He's_ after you? Why?"

"I don't know," he admitted, letting his shoulders droop. He must have looked even more dejected than he thought, because the alarm in her gaze melted to sympathy. "I just know we barely outran them at Mindor, and only because I had a friend on his ship who cut us loose." He shook his head. "I can't stop thinking about what happened to him."

"I'm sure he's fine," Leia offered, but the words rang hollow. They both knew they weren't true. "I mean—"

"Hey, kid," Han chose that moment to butt in, coming up behind Luke with his arms laden. Luke jumped, quickly whirling to face him. "You got any supplies yet? And who're you?" He squinted at Leia.

She seemed to draw herself up at the tone, looking down her nose at him as best she could when he was at least a foot taller than her.

"Leia Organa," she said, voice clear and frosty. Luke jolted again.

Han was equally surprised. "Organa? As in Governor Organa?"

"He's my uncle, yes," she replied, still in that aloof voice, though some of the ice faded from it as she turned back to Luke. "I'm sure he could provide you housing and employment if you needed it."

"Really?"

"Hey, the kid's already got employment," Han interjected. "It might not make much money at the moment, but the _Falcon_ 's the fastest ship in the sea. We'll be making our fortunes any day now."

"You want me to stay with you?" Luke was wide- and starry-eyed at the thought. A job sailing the seas, under the sky. . . That was all he'd ever wanted. "Even after. . ." He glanced at Leia. ". . .everything?"

"We've all got prices on our heads." Han shrugged. "Why not? You're pretty good in a fight. We could use you." He leaned in conspiratorially. "And Chewie kinda likes you."

Luke could feel the grin spreading over his face. "Alright," he said. "Alright."

Han clapped him on the shoulder. "Great, kid. Now go get those supplies. You gotta pull your own weight around here."

"I will," Luke promised, then Han sauntered off with one last lacklustre glare shot at Leia.

Luke swallowed as he turned to his sister. She was watching him carefully. "You're leaving again?"

"I want to sail," he said simply. "And I don't think we'll be leaving for a few days. We could meet up, maybe, in that time? And write to each other after that?"

Leia was still watching him closely—it unnerved him, the way she seemed able to strip anyone down to their core and interpret whatever she saw. But then she smiled. "Alright," she accepted, though the words were still tinged with disappointment. "I get it: you want to sail. Mother mentioned in her letter that you were interested in the sea." She hugged herself, like she was cold, and glanced away—in the direction he knew the sea was in. "I am too."

And they both felt it, then: that pull to the wildness, to the depths, to explore the edges of the world. To taste the wind, grip the rigging, shout to all the skies until they were hoarse in the throat.

But Leia was the governor's adopted niece; Luke was an orphan with some good friends. One of them had privilege. The other had freedom.

"I'll see you at some point before we go," he promised

She lifted her chin, the beginnings of a smirk on her lips. "Swing by the governor's house. I'll let you in. Maybe show you about the town a bit as well?"

"Will do." He held out his hand; she took it, and squeezed tightly. "See you around, little sister."

"I'm older!"

* * *

The tough claw of a comm hawk curled round her thumb tightly. The birds were much heavier than most would expect from their size, but she was familiar with them. Working with them was her _job_ here. It didn't surprise her in the least.

They were the most reliable form of messaging in the Empire, of course. The sleek black and white birds could fly much faster than any vessel could sail; if trained right, they could go anywhere in the world, deliver any message.

Imperial spies such as herself made great use of them—especially in urgent situations of highly sensitive information.

This certainly constituted.

She hadn't quite been able to believe her eyes when she saw it. _Obi-Wan Kenobi_ , on _Alderaan_? One of the most popular trading ports in the Empire? Turning to _Bail Organa_ for help? He was either insane or desperate—or both.

Either way, it was something her Master would _love_ to know about.

So she tied the message to the hawk's leg, then held out her arm for it to take flight.

As it soared away, she felt the tiniest tinge of regret at the betrayal of her old friend. Then she shook it off.

There were bigger things at stake here than one friendship. Geonosis and its rebellion had been pacified; Alderaan was next. One man was inconsequential compared to everything else she was fighting for.

Nevertheless, Ahsoka Tano stood on the beach long until the surf rolled around her ankles and the hawk had disappeared into the sunset.

* * *

Obi-Wan was in Bail's manor house, still in the midst of discussing Luke's situation with his old friend, when the attack bells began to ring.

Bail went pale, peering out the window that overlooked the sea, then stopped breathing altogether.

"It's Vader," he confirmed grimly, his voice faint. "He's come for us."

* * *

In hindsight, it had been a blessing that Han had docked them in one of the smaller docks to avoid attention, and not the main one. It meant that when Alderaan's system of beacons and bells started sounding danger, they actually had a chance of escape.

"Don't worry about the fancy arrangements, kid, just throw it in the hatch!" Han shouted as Luke took the gangplank at a run—ill-advised, perhaps, but Han knew it was necessary. The boy was afraid. "Then c'mon and help us get outta here." He threw a glance at the horizon—no Imperial vessels in their path. Yet.

"It's just lucky Chewie's already got us ready to sail," he muttered. Only to jerk at Luke's boyish shout.

"What about Ben? We can't leave him! And Leia!"

"Her Highnessness is the governor's niece—"

"So she'll be a target!"

 _And not one I want on my ship,_ Han thought, but didn't say. It wouldn't be worth the argument with Luke.

"Alderaan's always been stupid about the Empire, they'll have expected an attack, maybe even got her out," he shouted back. "Now get to the capstan and help Chewie bring up the anchor, we need to—"

" _What about Ben_?"

"We were planning on ditching that old fossil anyway, this doesn't change anything," he snapped. It was true—and the only reason he'd wanted to keep Luke on was because the kid was good in a fight so if he didn't _shut up_ and _get to fighting_ —

"No! He's in trouble!" Han saw Luke lose his footing as Chewie dumped the anchor on board and the boat lurched away from the harbour—the kid hadn't got his sea legs back yet. But they were on their way now. "Turn the ship around!"

"Shut up, kid, and get the sails down we ain't got any time to waste!" The fore sail was already down, billowing in the wind, but they needed the mizzen sail too if they'd ever hope to outrun the Imperial fleet. Not to mention—

The wheel rattled as it spun; Han grimaced as he caught it, palms stinging. The wind was against them— _severely_ against them—and if they didn't do some real fancy sailing here they wouldn't make it past the horizon.

He almost shouted when Luke's voice sounded again, right next to him—now was _not the time_. "Turn the ship around!" he insisted, trying to grab for the wheel. Han batted him away easily. Luke scowled. "We have to help—"

"Look, kid," Han growled, shoving his head forward so he towered over him. "Kenobi's a smart man—a pretentious, posh, _irritating_ one, but smart. He'll have hopped on the nearest ship, or hidden in the mountains, or _something_. And that Princess or whatever she was of yours will have a contingency plan in place. But if _we_ go back, _right now_ , instead of running and lying low in the Outer Rim? We'll all die. Vader will slaughter us. And you'll have killed us all with your stupid brand of heroics."

Luke jerked back as if he'd been hit. Han paid him no mind.

"So get up onto the yards, and bring down the mizzen sail," he ordered, voice hard. He was sick of this kid, sick of wanting to go soft on him, sick of the guilt that sprung up when he didn't. Sick of Chewie's disapproving stares as well. "Or Vader will catch us anyway."

Luke drew in a shaky breath. "Yes, _sir_ ," he spat, then scampered off. Han tried to ignore the pang in his chest.

It certainly became easier to do once the mizzen sail was down and they were finally starting to gain some distance on the fleet. Funny, Han had to muse, but didn't consider for very long: The moment Luke had agreed and unfurled the sail, the winds had swept in behind them, carrying them far, far away from the burning port.

* * *

Obi-Wan took a deep breath as his hand inched towards his sword. It wasn't the grand, embellished one he'd carried in his days as a Jedi Knight—that was long rusted away, along with his youth and Anakin's soul. He hadn't been any been able to bear looking at sword he'd given Luke _or_ his own, and the fallible metal had paid the price.

This sword was a simple one, bought from Owen's forge before the man had hated him quite so much, and its unfamiliarity in his hand helped, in a way. It lacked the past that all of this was building up to.

Because Bail and Breha had fled the townhouse, likely to their death if Vader had blockaded the city. Young Leia had been sent out in a small sailing vessel to try to get her to safety. Leaving only Obi-Wan in the city.

He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. He could hear Vader coming closer—the uneven gait, the rhythmic _clack_ of the wooden leg Obi-Wan had given him against the ground. He was coming. Destiny was coming. There was no escaping it—or him.

So Obi-Wan lifted his sword, well aware of the Alderaanians peering out of their windows and shutters down on the street below. If this was his last fight, he would fight for them.

And for Luke.

He only hoped Solo had got him out of the port in time.

He allowed himself a moment to mourn the years lost with Luke. The lessons he would never get to teach him, the past he hadn't even begun to explain—and the family he'd never known. But then Vader stalked around the corner, into the deserted street, and Obi-Wan banished all thoughts of Luke from his mind.

This was it. Their final showdown.

But Vader didn't seem interested in killing him just yet. He tensed when he laid eyes on him, a snarl twisting his handsome face, but there was no surprise. And the murder he saw there was. . . contained. Suppressed. Controlled.

For now, at least.

He just loped forward, surprisingly deft and mobile with his wooden leg, and stopped just a little out of range of Obi-Wan's sword.

Then he asked, "Where is he?"

There was a cold, cold pit in Obi-Wan's stomach. "Where is who?" he asked carefully.

Vader's eyes flashed. He lunged forwards, drawing his sword in one motion and levelling it at Obi-Wan's throat. " _Where is he_."

"I'm afraid," Obi-Wan insisted, eyeing the sword at his throat with distaste, "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

With a roar, Vader swung again; Obi-Wan parried, and held the blade there.

"Where. Is. My. Son."

 _It_ is _Luke_. How had he found out? The records on Tatooine?

It didn't matter. It didn't matter, because now all Obi-Wan could do was stall. He owed Luke that much—and he owed Padmé even more.

"I'm afraid I don't know who you're talking about," he affected, stepping back as Vader swung again, and again, and again. "Padmé's child survived the birth?"

" _Do not say her name!_ " Vader was less swinging now, and more _thrashing_ ; his sword was a blur in his hands, the hits like hammer blows. Nicks were starting to cut into Obi-Wan's blade. _"And don't lie!_ "

The words were almost tearful, Obi-Wan registered. The ripping in his heart distracted him enough that when he hit a rut in the road, he tripped. And he fell.

Vader smacked his sword out of his hand. It clattered away, far out of his reach, and Obi-Wan couldn't summon it back. He was no deity: the only skills he had were those Amidala had chosen to bestow upon him, and nothing more.

"You may have been the greater warrior once, Kenobi," Vader seethed, "but now _I_ am the Master. And you will tell me what I need to know, or die." He raised his sword above his head. "Where is my son? _Where is Luke?_ "

Obi-Wan closed his eyes. He refused to think about the blade that shone in the noonday sun. He refused to think about the way Vader's voice broke on Luke's name. And he _certainly_ refused to think about the pain that had flitted across Vader's face as he made his final threat.

His eyes were still closed when he whispered, "I'll never tell you," and the sword came crashing down.


	5. Fight and Flight

Leia had been so distracted by the wind on her face and the sun in the sky and the sea being beneath her for the first time in her memory, she initially didn't notice the shadow creeping up behind them.

But she certainly noticed it when the pirates first slaughtered one of Captain Antilles's apprentices, and he screamed like a man who'd seen his doomsday.

And when the entire small ship was set alight, even her brother, miles and miles away across the sea, noticed the blaze.

* * *

"What's that?" Luke shouted down from the crow's nest, squinting against the dark of night. It looked like smoke.

Han ignored him, so he shouted again. "Hey! What's that?"

Han tossed his head back, shielding his eyes from the sun as he glared up at him at the kid, irritated. "Well what does it look like?"

"Smoke."

From up here, the wind stole the curses Han was no doubt spitting, but Luke could imagine them regardless. He had the feeling he wanted to be down there for this conversation.

He finished descending the rigging in time to catch the words, "—as far away as possible."

Chewie said something that sounded scathing; Han flushed red, and jabbed his finger in his chest. "Hey, I'm just trying to save all our necks here! We were lucky enough to escape at Mindor and Alderaan, sailing straight at the first danger we see ain't gonna end well!"

"We're not gonna help?" Luke asked.

Han scowled at him. "Oh, you too? You're all a bunch of soft-hearted idiots. _We are on the run from the Empire_ ," he enunciated. "I don't stay alive by going 'round picking fights."

"But with the amount of smoke I saw, it'll be one ship burning at most," Luke persisted. "And you said yourself—the _Falcon_ 's the fastest ship on the seas." No doubt due to the many modifications she'd had. "We can head over just to check, and if it looks like trouble we'll bolt."

Han's scowl only deepened at Luke's (perfectly rational!) assessment of the situation. "Look, kid—"

"You don't think the _Falcon_ 's fast enough?"

"Of _course_ I think she's fast enough, shavit, but you—"

"Then I don't see the problem," Luke challenged, sharing a glance with Chewie. The man voiced his agreement, and he could just _see_ Han starting to bend under the pressure.

Han's face twisted. . . then slackened again. "Fine," he growled out. "We'll follow the smoke. And see what kind of trouble it gets us into this time." He threw a glance to the west. "But that mist is rolling in fast—you'd better hope we can still find our way out when it hits."

Luke just ignored his last words, a small, satisfied smile settling on his lips.

But the mist _did_ roll in before they reached the source of the smoke, and Luke found himself unnaturally twitchy at every shadow that flitted through the fog. Birds seemed to be congregating around here a _lot_ —he could feel his heart in his throat when he saw the recognisable scarlet wings rustle, and go to nest on the yards.

Even without all the stories he knew about them, their presence felt like something important. Like fate was watching over them.

He was so busy jumping at shadows he nearly screamed when he saw the light.

He spotted it off the port side at first, just a yellowish spot of fog, before it came forward again and coalesced into something, the dichotomy of light and darkness clearer.

It was a longboat, lit by a single lantern. And in that longboat—

"Leia!"

She turned her face up at the shout. She had no reaction to the sight of the ship coming up to her, nor him leaning over the side, waving. Her eyes were dull, skin tear-stained. She didn't seem to react to anything at all.

"Help me get her up!" he called to Chewie, and they both unfurled the rope ladder to climb down into her longboat. It rocked when he nearly fell into it; after he'd steadied them, he took Leia's hand. It was like ice.

"You're gonna come up onto our ship," he told her clearly, trying to meet her eye. She didn't seem to be looking at anything. "Okay?"

Her eyes slid to his; recognition clouded her features. "Okay," she affirmed, her voice weak. She nodded, and tried again. "Okay."

Her voice was stronger that time, which was encouraging, so Luke slid his hand under her elbow and helped her get a grip on the ladder. With a nudge, she started to climb.

A misplaced flick of her foot sent the lone lantern tumbling into the sea, extinguished, but the mist was silver in the moonlight. There was enough to see by.

Leia wore what looked like a sailor's shirt and trousers—complete with a pistol slung across her hip—instead of her usual petticoats, so she made it onto the deck without too much trouble. She still had to stop to catch her breath for a moment.

Unfortunately, that was when Han came up to see what all the fuss was about.

"Well if it ain't Her Highnessness, come to bother us all some more."

Luke's mouth snapped open to defend her, but the words seemed to have snapped her back into action. She suddenly seemed plenty capable of doing it herself.

"I certainly didn't plan on seeing _you_ again," she said haughtily, the damsel-in-distress demeanour falling like rain. She had the whole 'offended aristocrat' act down perfectly. "I hardly _asked_ for my home to be attacked by Vader, nor for my escape ship to be attacked by pirates and everyone killed in the fire they set!"

 _Everyone killed_. Luke winced at the words; Han, hardened smuggler or not, winced too. "Well, that explains the smoke we saw, then," he drawled, though not quite as harshly as he could have. "That good enough for you, kid? You heard her. No survivors. No one else to look for." He turned his belligerent gaze on Chewie. "I get you might not want to go back to Tatooine, but _now_ can we head to the Outer Rim?" He eyed Leia distastefully. "I dunno what we'll do with Her Worship here, though, she doesn't exactly seem like the smuggler type—"

"The Outer Rim, did you say?" Leia perked up at the words, selectively ignoring the digs at her character. "That's near Naboo, isn't it? Or rather, Naboo's on the way." It was a rhetorical question—a governor's niece certainly didn't need a few criminals to affirm her own basic geography. "Take me there."

"Oh yeah?" Han scoffed at the idea. "And what's in it for me?"

For a moment, Luke thought Leia would snarl, or lunge to throttle Han with her bare hands.

But then she got out through gritted teeth, "You will be well-compensated for your efforts, Captain Solo. I assure you that."

"And who on Naboo's gonna compensate me?"

"A major leader of the Rebel Alliance," she said coldly then she looked at Luke, and her voice was clearer when she said, "Padmé Naberrie."

Luke blinked. Padmé—

"Never heard of her," Han grunted, either oblivious to or ignoring Luke's shock.

"One would expect a Rebel to keep her identity a secret," Leia drawled, but she held out her left hand. "So, Captain Solo. Do we have an accord?"

Han eyed her hand for a heartbeat too long. He glanced at Luke, then Chewie. Luke couldn't help but notice Leia's free hand twitch towards the pistol at her hip.

Then Han closed his hands around hers, and they shook. "That we do, Princess," he said. "Provided we're _really_ well-compensated."

Leia glanced at Luke. Her eyes were bright as she said, "You will be."

* * *

"Hey, Master," Ahsoka greeted with a wicked grin when Vader finally limped back to the _Devastator_. She saw the blood on his sword; saw the murder in his eyes. She knew what he'd done.

She tried not to think about it.

Unfortunately, Ana— _Vader_ wasn't cooperating with that. "That _liar_ ," he hissed. " _Kidnapper_ , and _traitor_ , and _liar_ —"

"What'd he do this time?" she drawled, still with that grin on her face. Her arrogant front irritated her master half the time; the other half, it amused him. She hoped this would be the latter.

In the end, it was neither. He just wanted to vent. "He _stole_ him."

"Stole who?"

"My _son_ ," he seethed. " _Luke Skywalker_."

She sucked in a breath. "Padmé—"

" _Do not say her name_."

She deflated.

"Yes, Master," she said dully, that edge of arrogance vanishing like the sea mist off the Alderaanian coast.

This. . . this was _major_.

Did Padmé know? She had to know.

Vader made to stride into his quarters; Ahsoka tried to follow, but was summarily barred. "Get out."

She didn't fight it. She just drifted over to the edge of the ship, and watched the moonlight play over the waves.

 _Luke Skywalker_. Huh.

The word lacked its usual flippancy. That name— _one_ name—she knew, would change the course of both their lives for good.

And somehow, she knew they weren't heading to Coruscant just yet.

* * *

Luke was standing at the prow of the ship when Leia found him, staring out at the horizon and the grey light of dawn.

"Don't you _sleep_?"

Luke bent his head. "Not without nightmares," he found himself admitting to her. _Especially about Vader, the forge_ — _everything_. He hadn't had a dream yet that didn't feature the man glowering at him, giving the order to kill. "Besides, I _asked_ for the night watch. Everything looks so much prettier at night."

"When you can't see the truth of it?" she asked, coming up to rest her elbows next to his.

He laughed softly. "No—not like that. When the moon and starlight is all silver, and there's the mist, and everything's quiet except for the sea, the birds and the sky. It's more peaceful."

Leia shivered suddenly, and Luke wondered if she was remembering the pirates attacking her ship only a few hours earlier, their fires lighting the night the colours of hell.

"Peaceful," she echoed. "Right."

An awkward silence fell. For a moment, Luke just watched the sun continue to inch its way closer to the horizon. The sky was a lightening grey; it wouldn't be long now.

Then he whispered, "I'm sorry about Alderaan."

"I'm sorry about your aunt and uncle," she shot right back. Then she sighed. "I. . . We knew it was coming. My uncle was too outspoken, too reluctant to _bow to the Emperor's wishes_. We figured, the only thing keeping Palpatine in power is the navy. And his control of the sea. Coruscant's a tiny island, no resources; the moment he loses his navy and trade embargoes, he falls. You know that without the Jedi, no one but Vader can use some of the best trade routes? Sea monsters lurk there or something."

Luke nodded. "Yeah, Ben mentioned something about that before. . ." _We left him behind_.

Sighing, Leia continued, "Anyway, the Empire _relies_ on major ports like Alderaan. You know, places where all the safe routes converge. We've only become rich since the Jedi routes were shut off to everyone except Vader. People _had_ to come to us. We thought. . . we thought we were important enough that if we rebelled, surely it would make a difference?"

"But it _did_ make a difference," Luke assured her. Even on Tatooine, they'd heard about Alderaan and its relief aid, how it was rumoured to be the money behind several Rebel attacks, about it being the only safe haven practically untouched by the Empire—at first, at least. When the Empire couldn't _afford_ to touch it.

It'd done all that with dwindling resources itself.

And now it was gone.

"I know," she said grimly, lips twisting into a bitter smile. " _Too_ much of a difference. We became a threat." She folded her hands together. "And he took action."

The silence that fell was heavy, but in a different way to the previous one. Heavy with a sense of grief, instead of awkwardness. Hopelessness.

Luke had never felt quite so lost.

Amidst the silence, the sun finally crawled its way above the horizon, turning the ocean to molten gold. And with it, the birds began to sing.

Leia lifted her head. She didn't bother to hide the tears on her face, glinting in the amber light, as she peered up at the yards where the birds rested. Luke looked too, and smiled.

Starbirds. Starbirds again.

As they watched, one of them noticed their attention on them and took flight, neatly sailing on widespread wings to land on the deck a few feet away from them. It cocked its head, curious.

A laugh spilled out of Leia's lips. They shared a glance, smiling faintly.

"I heard a legend that they're the spirits of dead sailors come to guide their loved ones home," Luke murmured.

"Maybe it's your aunt or uncle," she mused. "Or mine."

Luke shook his head. "Then there'd be more than one, wouldn't there? And none of them were sailors."

"Then who?"

 _My fat_ _her. N_ o. Our _father_.

The words sprang to his lips, but he didn't voice them—if only because he knew, deep down, they weren't true. He knew exactly who this would be.

"Leia," he asked, voice even. "Uh, when you left. . . was Ben Kenobi still alive?"

He didn't look to see her expression, but her voice was pained as she said, "When I left? He was. But he had plans of going to face Vader." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her shake her head. "I don't think he survived much longer."

So Luke kept his gaze fixed on the starbird, preening itself in the golden light. The wind was cold against the tears on his face.

"He was the last connection I had to home," he admitted softly, and felt his bottom lip begin to tremble.

There was a hand on his shoulder, then an arm around his waist, and then he and Leia were hugging each other tightly. The Skywalker twins, together at last, but for the first time, feeling so, so alone.

* * *

They came upon the Deep Core before the sun was at its zenith. A collection of uninhabited islands surrounded by deadly rocks with few safe passages through—much like Mindor. They'd only sailed this way, Han explained, because it was the fastest route while avoiding Coruscant. And they didn't want to pass too close to the centre of the Empire.

"One thing you gotta watch out for round these parts," Han did admit, "are pirate gangs. Privateers, whatever. Some of them work for the Empire, some don't, but they all use this passage to either avoid the Imperials or catch the people avoiding Imperials, so we better watch out. We might have to fight our way outta here."

He narrowed his eyes at Luke. "Maybe you'll finally get to show off some of those fancy sword tricks you mentioned, kid. And as for Your Worship," he eyed Leia disdainfully. "I don't wanna do any babysitting—"

He was cut off with a yelp when a bullet barrelled past his head, tearing through one of the sails before landing in the sea and sinking.

 _I'm gonna be the one to sew up that hole_ , Luke mourned, but one look at Leia's expression had him re-evaluating whether it would be a good idea to do any whining out loud.

"You won't be _babysitting_ , Captain," she said, the words hard and cold. She tucked her pistol back into the pocket of her trousers—because that was what it was, Luke realised: a pocket pistol, designed with a folding trigger to make it more streamlined, easier to hide in a lady's purse or pocket. He hadn't recognised it before. "I can take care of myself."

The shock—and fear—that had flitted over Han's face dissipated quickly. "Glad to hear it, Your Highnessness," he drawled, getting back into his usual swagger with little effort. "So long as you don't miss the pirates the way you missed me. Now, if you're finished playing target practice with the fish—" Leia scowled, hard. "—us normal folk _do_ have a ship to run."

"Why, you—"

"Sorry, sweetheart, I got a job to do, I don't have time for this." He smirked, clearly well aware of how angry he was making Leia. Luke released a laugh despite himself.

He regretted it when Han turned on him.

"Oh, and kid?" He smirked. "Fix the sail."

* * *

When the pirates _did_ attack, it was when they were at the heart of the Deep Core, and Han was getting the most antsy.

They were just passing through the narrowest part of the passage, in between two cliffs, when they saw her. The pirate was a tall, extremely pale woman, with a ponytail almost as long as the barrel of the firearm clutched in her grasp.

It was Luke's shift in the crow's nest again, and that was what he saw first: the sunlight glinting off the metal. He swallowed harshly. "Han?"

"I see her, kid," Han called back. There was no alarm in his voice when he addressed him, but the wind caught snippets of his next words to Chewie, at the helm, and Luke just heard, "—your distance, but don't _look_ like you're trying to keep your distance—"

Then the shot rang out.

It didn't hit Han—the smuggler ducked at the last minute—but it missed him by a hairsbreadth. And if the storm of cursing was anything to go by, it didn't mean anything good. More shots were fired, the woman apparently trying to pick each of them off; Luke ducked deeper into the crow's nest as the bullets shot past him, heart hammering in his throat.

No—no, no, _no_ , he didn't want to die, and—

He was a sitting target up here. He needed to get down.

He took a deep breath, then peeked above the rim of the crow's nest.

Ducked again; a bullet whistled through his hair to embed itself it in wood, millimetres above his scalp.

Right.

How could the woman be so accurate, but still miss them?

 _Because she doesn't want to kill you._

 _The_ Millennium Falcon _probably has a bounty on it, so Vader could catch Ben more easily. And even if Ben's dead, he hasn't removed the bounty. They want us_ — _no, they want_ Ben— _alive._

For now, at least.

He risked another look over the side. There were more pirates down there, presumably working with her, climbing and swinging over from their vantage points on the cliffs just to land with a jolt and brandish their swords—

Swords.

It might be three, four, five against four, without even counting the sharpshooter, but swordplay was Luke's element. This was something he knew.

So he took another deep breath, wrapping his hand round the hilt of his own sword for a moment. It invigorated him, steadied him.

Then he threw himself out of the crow's nest.

For a moment he was falling, falling. . . then he caught the rigging in his left hand and _held on_ , letting the sob in his chest break free as he swung. He reached out his other hand, searched for a foothold—

Hand over foot, hand over foot—

Then the deck was shuddering under his feet, and he was in the thick of the melee.

At the thud of his landing, the nearest pirate turned on him—a stocky man with a thick broadsword—and grinned, his tongue darting out to lick at his lips. He threw his arms back, ready to bring his blade down on his head—

Uncle Owen's words came to mind clearly, a transparent haze settling over the situation. _Broadswords? Don't be stupid. You're small, and nimble; you'd struggle to even lift one. They're too heavy to be effective against a quick opponent like you, anyway._

 _Quick._

The broadsword came down, but Luke wasn't there anymore. And when it came down again, he wasn't there either.

He kept slashing his own blade, trying to find purchase, but the man's armour was thick and scaly; he couldn't get through. So he kept going, swinging—again, and again.

And again and again and again, until—

The man roared as Luke slashed through a chink at his shoulder, tearing through delicate flesh. The man howled his pain—animalistic, his cry was absolutely _animalistic_ —then, while he was off balance, Luke kicked him in the side.

Another scream. This time as he was propelled backwards, hit the side with a thud—

And toppled straight over it. The splash was audible.

There was a shout—more like a _cackle_. Luke turned to face his next opponent: a woman with orange hair in two pigtails and pink acne consuming half her head. She half-grinned, seemingly unfazed by her comrade's downfall; with a flick of her hand, she brought the whip in her hand to bear against him.

It ripped down the side of his face, over his right eye; he screamed himself, his vision blurry with blood.

Another flick, and it retreated to the woman. She surveyed him with mounting sadism, as if she was wondering which area would hurt the most. . .

Luke didn't know anything about fighting people with whips. He didn't know what to do, or where to hit them. All he knew was that that whip _hurt_ , and he didn't want it touching him again, so maybe— _maybe_ —killing her before she killed him was a viable option.

So he lunged, sword out and aimed straight for her unprotected chest—

The whip drew a line of fire round his wrist; his sword clattered to the floor. He screamed again and she kicked him in the shins. He went down, hard.

Everything was still red, the blood swamping half his vision, but he saw the way she bore down on him, then the shock, pain—and the _rage_ —on the woman's face.

Then, belatedly, he heard the shot.

Saw the whip tumble out of her splayed fingers, trailing blood. She turned, snarling. . .

. . .and Leia punched her in the face.

She reeled backwards, off-balance—

And Luke swung his legs at hers to knock her over.

Luke found himself glad for the blood clouding his vision. It meant he didn't have the see the pirate's brains splatter across the decks with Leia's final shot. He hoped he didn't have to clean them off later.

"Is that all of them?" The words came out more exhausted than he meant them to.

His sister glanced around, then nodded. "Are you alright?" she asked, eyeing the blood on him. There was a lot of it.

"Superficial wounds," he told her, wincing as he tried to clamber to his feet. His head was still spinning. "Nothing deep or deadly, just—" He hissed in a breath. "—painful." He narrowed his eyes at her. "What about you?"

"I'm fine."

There was something off about that statement—and the way she clutched her bicep as she said it. "Are you sure?"

" _Yes,_ Luke."

He narrowed his eyes further. "So what's up with your arm?"

She blinked for a moment, surprised—then instantly got defensive. "It's _fine_ ," she insisted. "The sharpshooter just got off a glancing blow."

He gave her a look. She sighed, but relented to his request to look at it.

Gently, as gently as possible, he rolled the sleeve back, and hissed. "Kriff, Leia." He winced. "That's a really deep wound."

"It's not that bad!" she snapped. "I can fight perfectly well—"

"You've proved that," he assured her. "Now come on—let's get you a bandage before you lose too much blood."

"And you?" she asked pointedly. "You can barely see."

"Then I'll get something to wipe my eyes with while I'm at it."


	6. Hunted

"Ow, ow, _ow_! Be careful!"

"I'm being as careful as I can!"

"What's going on in here?" Han called out, kicking open the door to the saloon and stopping short when he came upon Leia in her underclothes, Luke doing his best to bandage the injury on her bicep without being slapped. "Kid? Your Worship? What happened to you?"

"Luke got beat up by that woman with the whip," Leia said baldly. "I got shot."

"I can see that," Han muttered, eyeing the two of them. "And, did it occur to you that we might need help with the navigation and clean up, or. . .?"

"Did it occur to you that I might bleed out if this gets too bad, or. . .?"

"Shut it, Your Highnessness, I'm the captain here—" He cut himself off when both of them grimaced at once. "You alright?"

"Being shot hurts, funnily enough," Leia bit out. Luke didn't reply, just rotated his right hand. That whip had cut deep; even if it didn't affect his motor ability, it was _agonising_ , and he was bleeding onto Leia's bandages.

Han was still standing in the doorway. Leia shot him a look, and asked sweetly, "Was there something else?"

With a hell of a lot of grumbling, Han turned around and left, but Luke and Leia's awkward banter had long since evaporated.

Luke searched for something to say, only to land on what he'd been wanting to say for a while now: "Padmé Naberrie's on Naboo?"

The real questions he was asking hid in his tone of voice, slightly stiff and pained. _Why do you know and I don't? Did she not trust me?_

Leia shook her head, apparently picking up the subtext. "My uncle told me as I fled Alderaan," she whispered. "'If all else fails, go to Naboo. Your mother will look after you.'"

"Ah," Luke said. It was all he _could_ say.

Other than— "What else do you know about our mother?"

Leia's eyes stared at some point over his shoulder. "Not much," she admitted. "Nothing major, at least. I know she had to give us up for some reason at birth, and that we were raised by separate families to protect us."

"From the Empire?"

"Presumably. I know that my uncle was incredibly angry and worried when he found out she signed her letters as _Padmé Naberrie_ —that's her real name, and he was worried about someone intercepting her letters and recognising it. _Who_ might do that," she bit her lip, "he didn't mention." She sighed. "What about you?"

"About the same." Luke furrowed his brow. "We only ever talked about her hobbies, or food, or me. She always ignored questions about where she was or where she came from. All I knew about _you_ was that you were my twin, you were a girl, and you were called Leia."

"Likewise." At Luke's raised eyebrows, she rushed to add, laughing, "Not that you were a girl and called Leia! You know what I mean."

He conceded the point with a shrug.

Then he glanced at the door of the saloon. "I should probably go," he said apologetically, finishing the knot on the bandage. "I _did_ tell Han this morning that I'd be out on deck to help with the navigation."

"That was before you got the stuffing beaten out of you."

"Nevertheless." His grin tugged on the injury across his face. He touched it gently—he'd cleaned it out and it had stopped bleeding, but he doubted it would be fully healed for a while. It might even leave a scar.

Bisecting his eyebrow. Over his right eye.

Just like Vader's.

He grimaced at the thought. Leia saw the expression, reaching for his hand and cocking her head in a silent, concerned question. He waved it off. "It's fine," he assured her.

"If you say so," she said in a sceptical tone. She leaned forward to kiss his cheek, then they unclasped hands and Luke left the saloon.

A starbird swooped overhead just as he did; he laughed as he ducked, then eyed it when it landed on the deck a few feet away. It _was_ the same one as earlier, alright—it had the same markings on its wings.

Han was already waiting for him at the helm. From the scowl on his face, he hadn't been expecting Luke to show.

"I've set our heading for southwest," he told him when Luke mounted the stairs. "I dunno when we'll get to Naboo, but it'll be within three weeks."

"Do we have supplies to last that long?"

"You tell me, kid. You're the one who was taking inventory of it all earlier."

Luke grimaced. "That was _all_ of it?"

"All of it."

"Then no," he answered. "We don't have supplies to last that long."

"Do we have enough for the next week?"

Luke shrugged. "Yeah, just about."

"Then we'll deal with that later," Han decided. "Until then, we sail southwest."

Luke followed the line of his arm as he pointed, watching the _Falcon_ creak and groan. The wind filled the sails; the sun gleamed; the sea swelled. It was a vision of peace bedecked in blue and white.

Then the starbird from earlier flapped into his line of sight, and made off at a slightly different angle of the ship's heading, until it was just a speck on the horizon.

"Maybe we should follow the starbird," he mused. "The legends say they always show the way."

Next to him, Han let out a very loud groan. "Don't. Just _don't_ , kid. That's all a bunch of mumbo jumbo."

"So I take it we're not changing course to south-southwest?" Luke asked innocently. "That's about the direction it flew in."

Han didn't dignify it with a response.

At least, he didn't at that moment in time.

A few hours later, he dignified it with a lot of cussing, when their course took them too close to an Imperial patrol near Coruscant and he had to shift their course to south-southwest to escape them.

"Not one word," he warned, as Luke's barely contained grin threatened to split his face in two. "Not one word."

* * *

Currently, there were two priorities Vader was operating on. One: obey his Master. Two: find his son. He wasn't sure which would take precedent if they ever came into conflict, but that was a question for another time, since right at this moment there seemed a neat compromise between the two.

His Master had ordered him to sail to Coruscant again from Alderaan and make an appearance there to mark their victory. He needn't land—in fact, he'd been discouraged from doing so, in order to preserve the idea that the carnage was not yet finished. To provoke the fear of the senators present that their lands would be next targeted. It was a scare tactic, one Vader was all too familiar with.

It just so happened that the _Millennium Falcon_ had been sighted heading through the Core as well. No doubt, Luke was aboard.

Which was how they'd ended up sailing through _here_ , a rocky smugglers' pass, instead of the shorter route by open sea. If there was any chance they could catch up—the ships of the Imperial navy were some of the fastest made—then they had better take the route Solo had no doubt taken.

Which was how they found the pirates.

Only three of them had survived, all of them infamous enough that Vader recognised them on sight. The lanky sharpshooter: Aurra Sing. The stocky, aggressive swordsman: Bossk. And the leader of them, bedecked as always in a mocking parody of the armour of the Jedi Knights who'd killed his father: Boba Fett.

Fett never removed his helmet when doing business. He never even lifted his visor. Yet Vader could still feel the sneer directed at him and his men as the _Devastator_ moored itself to the side of the passage, and they approached.

They'd dragged themselves onto one of the rocks jutting out of the cliff face, the grey stone dark with water and. . . blood?

Yes, Vader confirmed. Blood. Bossk was bleeding heavily—he'd likely bleed out within a few more hours, despite the makeshift bandage they'd slapped on him.

"Lord Vader," Fett growled, his gravelly voice grinding against the metal of his helmet. He didn't say anything else—no offer of help, or request for it. He stood impassive as a statue.

This was why Vader preferred working with Fett. "You appear to have run into trouble," he observed, perhaps a _touch_ dryly. There was no question in his voice, but he would think the way his trooper escort tightened their grips on their pistols would be indication enough of what he wanted.

"We were chasing a bounty when they proved to have more teeth than expected," Fett said, ever careful not to give too much away. He was a mercenary: he knew exactly how information could be used—and how it could be sold. He wouldn't tell them what the bounty was, or how hard they'd been hit, unless it was direct.

And even then, he'd have a price.

"How many more teeth?" Vader asked, surveying Fett's pitiful excuse for a crew. Sing bristled under his dismissive gaze, but she'd evidently learned to keep her mouth shut when dealing with him. The scar on her throat was enough of an incentive to.

Fett's shoulders stiffened, but so did Vader's troopers—as did their readiness.

Fett kept talking.

"Half my team were wiped out," he shoved through gritted teeth. "Razzi, Dengar and Highsinger."

"This is the other half?" Again, that disdainful glare, trying to rile them up. Sing in particular; Bossk was known for his short temper but he seemed unconscious. "Small team."

"It was a small ship," Fett countered, a little too quickly. He had never been one to let an insult to his professionalism and aptitude go unchecked. "Small crew. We could take them."

"Evidently," Vader drawled, "you couldn't." He hooked his thumbs into his belt as he surveyed them for a moment, then tapped out a rhythm on his wooden leg. "What ship?"

He had a hunch. The necklace was warm against his chest; the wind was blowing this way. It hadn't been in their favour since Tatooine.

There was a moment of reluctance, then a moment of victory as Fett finally spat, "The _Millennium Falcon_."

"I see." Vader let none of the glee expanding in his chest show on his face. "The _Millennium Falcon_ , and her two-person crew, which I placed a hefty bounty on only a few days ago."

"Four-person," Sing snapped, finally losing her temper. "We would _never_ lose to _two people_."

Four. Vader allowed himself one blink to show his surprise.

Three, he would've understood. Luke was aboard, after all—naturally they might have mistaken him to be a part of the crew, or perhaps he _was_ part of the crew by now, as little as he wanted his son associating with lowlifes.

But who was the _fourth_ person?

"Four people," he mused aloud, fixing Sing with a look. Fett turned his head to glare at her, growling a warning, but Vader waved him quiet. "Name them."

There was no misinterpreting that quiet command. Sing glanced at his troopers, ready to fire, then back at him.

"Or what?" she tried for bravado. "You'll shoot me?"

Vader remained silent. Of its own accord, her hand found its way to her throat—the reminder there from the last time she'd crossed him. And she started talking.

"Four people," she spat out. "Solo, Chewbacca, and two kids. A boy and a girl. Blond boy, brown-haired girl. They seemed close—Razzi nearly killed the boy, but the girl shot her dead before she could."

Vader's hands clenched into fists at _nearly killed the boy_. Whether Sing noticed or not, she didn't acknowledge it.

"I remember that kid," Bossk said in that hissing accent of his, apparently not as unconscious as Vader had assumed him to be. "He overpowered me in a duel. Gave me _this_ ," he gestured to the injury draining him of blood, "then threw me overboard."

"If all you're going to do is complain about it, I should have just left you to drown," Sing told him. Her harsh tone suggested she wasn't joking.

"He must have been truly skilled," Vader said to Bossk sarcastically, "to have bested you."

The swordsman near _hissed_ at the insult, but insisted, still in his harsh whisper, "It's true. He was _good_. The best swordsman on the high seas, I'd say."

Sing scoffed again, her scorn chasing away her fear of Vader, and leaned back against the rock with that deadly grace she was so renowned for. "'The best swordsman on the high seas'," she mocked. "How cute. He's just a kid."

Vader wanted to hear more about this. His son's ability to handle a blade had already been proven—hadn't he fought off the troopers boarding his ship at Mindor?—but he wanted _more_. He wanted to know his son, in the way he'd thought he would, before. . .

Before Padmé had turned on him, and everything had fallen apart.

He felt the urge to clasp his hand round the snippet at his neck. He resisted it. Not in front of these pirates.

Nevertheless, it was the truth. He wanted to know _everything_.

And he _would_ know everything, he decided, when he finally caught him. When he convinced Luke to join him, join the Empire, the way his mother had refused to. He would have it all, then.

But _until_ then—

"And the girl?" It would be in his best interests to find out who she was. . .

Sing rolled her eyes. "Half-decent shooter," she had to admit. "Pretty, same age as the kid. Walks like a stuck up princess, brown hair in Alderaanian braids. . ." She shrugged. "I didn't recognise her."

 _No_ , Vader thought, _you wouldn't_. There was no reason at all that Imperial privateer Aurra Sing would recognise Leia Organa, niece of the Governor of Alderaan.

 _If_ it was her. But a girl her age, wearing Alderaanian braids and coming across as distinctly aristocratic. . .

The Governor of Alderaan had been killed in the invasion. As had his wife. Their niece had gone missing.

It was almost definitely her.

"Fett," he said harshly. A subtle straightening of the spine was all the surprise the privateer would show. "I have a job for you. The usual rate."

"It'll have to be higher than _that_."

"The usual rate, and nothing more."

Fett's silence was his acquiescence.

"I want you to hunt down the crew of the _Millennium Falcon_ , and deliver them to me," he paused a moment to let it sink it, then pressed, " _alive_."

Vader knew how it looked. He'd only shown special interest in them beyond the usual smuggler's bounty _after_ the girl was mentioned. If he made it seem like Leia Organa was his target, it might keep news of this from spreading to his enemies—to Padmé.

Did she know their son had survived? She must.

For all that Vader may make digs to the contrary, Fett was a professional. He didn't show any sort of surprise as he accepted.

* * *

"I give up." Luke threw down his cards. "You win again, Han."

"I told you, kid," Han said, grinning as he reached out to brush his winnings into a small pouch. "Never bet against me."

But Chewie smacked his hand away before he could touch the bits and pieces on the table.

Han scowled. "What?"

Chewie nodded towards Leia.

And at the cards she'd just laid flat on the table.

Luke wasn't sure he knew all the words Han swore with, but it was always entertaining to learn more. "How did you _get_ that? You barely know how to play!"

Leia smirked, and swept the winnings into her purse. "Beginner's luck."

"Bantha poodoo," Han muttered, but didn't press it any further.

Leia glanced at Luke, a challenging quirk to her lip. "Another round."

" _No_ ," he said firmly. "I don't have much left to lose to you."

Leia just sat back in her seat. "Are you sure?"

The saloon was dim; the candlelight played across the contours of her face, casting half of it into deep shadows. Luke noticed Han's scowl soften as he looked for perhaps a half-second too long, then looked away hastily.

"I'm sure," Luke said, humour colouring his voice. Han turned his scowl on him.

"Me too," he grunted. "We need to figure out where the hell we're going, anyway."

Leia raised an eyebrow. There was something oddly aristocratic about the gesture. "What is there to figure out? We're going to Naboo."

"You think we can get all the way to Naboo with the supplies we've got?" Han asked scornfully. "In case you've forgotten, we weren't even on Alderaan for a day. We didn't restock properly. We need to stop somewhere and pick up some more supplies." He raised his eyebrows right back at her. "Unless you expect the rest of us to starve, Your Worship."

Anticipating from Leia's expression that her reply would be cutting, lethal, and _completely_ unhelpful to the situation at hand, Luke cut in before she could voice it. "So where can we stop off?"

"Not at any Imperial port, that's for sure." Han threw a glance at Leia. "Especially with Her Highnessness over here. You're probably a walking target by now—once the Empire realises you're alive, you'll bring them all down on our heads."

"The way you brought them down on Alderaan?" At both their shocked expressions, Leia snapped, "You were already fugitives from _Vader himself_ when you docked in our bay; who's to say you didn't bring him and his fleet down on _us_?"

Luke couldn't move. He couldn't _breathe_.

Because she _had a point_. Alderaan had been getting away with its small rebellions for years—who's to say that they couldn't have continued to get away with them, had Luke and Ben never showed up?

Had— Luke blinked harshly. Had they caused—

Leia seemed to realise what she said, then. She stared at Luke, open-mouthed. It was only then he realised there were tears in his eyes.

"Luke, I—" She shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said to the table at large. Han and Chewie _were_ being surprisingly quiet. "That was uncalled for."

Han's expression was tight. He shoved his chair back and walked away—for a moment Luke thought he was going to storm out, apology or not—

But no. He stopped by the cabinet next to the doors, pulled a bundle of keys out of his pocket and inserted one into the lock on one of the drawers. Then he opened the drawer, and pulled something out.

When he dumped it on the table, their single lantern guttering with the blow, Luke saw it was a map.

Han sat down and unfurled it carefully. "We're around here," he said, pointing at a coordinate near the middle. Luke tracked with his eyes their route back, through the Core, around Coruscant. He heard Leia's breath constrict when she laid eyes on the crescent-shaped island titled ALDERAAN in neat print, but no comment was made.

Luke kept watching the map. It looked. . . different. . . to the ones he'd studied in school. The shapes of the countries were slightly different. And he could've sworn that there were islands on here that didn't exist on Imperial maps. . .

Then he saw the date in the corner. He didn't know when Han might've got it, but this map was from some twenty years earlier. Two years before the Jedi fell.

He pressed his lips together. What were the odds that not only had everyone's understanding of geography advanced in that time, but the Empire had actively tried to change how people saw the world?

The Emperor's curriculum assured his subjects that they knew everyone about the world, they were all-knowing, and all the students had to do was obey.

Looking at the great many areas full of uncharted territory now, Luke had to wonder: even with twenty years of advancement on top of _this_ , how much did they really know?

Sea magic was real. Imperial maps were wrong.

What next?

Han pulled a small pencil out of his pocket, and sketched a ring round their position. " _This_ ," he estimated grimly, "is about how far we can get with the supplies we have. That right, kid?" He glanced at Luke. "We do have about ten days' worth of supplies?"

"If we ration them," Luke said slowly, mentally cataloguing it on the spot, "yes."

"Then any port inside this ring is fair game. Where're we gonna go?"

Leia pursed her lips as she eyed the map. "Corellia? They always had close ties with Alderaan, they might—"

"I said _non-Imperial_ , sweetheart," Han drawled. "Look, as much as I love my homeland, I don't wanna _die_."

" _And_ we'd have to sail backwards quite a bit," Luke observed. "What about Devaron?"

"Nah, I've had bad experiences with Devaron and the locals." Chewie said something; Han wrinkled his nose. "What? She was pretty!"

"As fascinating as your past affairs no doubt were," Leia said, voice like ice, "can we _get back on topic_?"

"Why of _course_ , Your Worship," Han muttered, returning his gaze to the map. Then his brow cleared. "Lando."

Luke craned, his neck trying to see the map from Han's angle. "Lando? I don't see anywhere called _Lando_ on here."

"No, Lando's not a place, he's a person." Han jabbed his finger at the bottom-left of the map. Under his fingertip were two islands, marked HOTH and BESPIN respectively. "Last I heard, he'd set up his own little smuggling port on Bespin. And I can _guarantee_ you there's no Imperials there waiting for us."

"Guarantee us, huh?" For once, Leia wasn't being sarcastic. She tilted her head, squinting at the page. "And you're sure this _Lando_ will be able to help? Let us stay there for a few days, lie low?"

"Absolutely," Han said, his characteristic cockiness beginning to shine through. "We go _way_ back, Lando and me."

Chewie said something. Han ignored him.

"It'll be a stretch," he judged. "That's a long way to go, and it's out of our way. But it's a great place to," he glanced at Leia, eyebrows raised, " _lie low_." Then his eyes slid to the bandage at her arm. "Maybe even give you time to heal up a bit."

The words seemed to bring out the defensiveness in Leia. "Thank you for your consideration, Captain," she snapped, "but I don't need _time to heal_."

"Maybe not," Luke offered, "but it couldn't hurt. Any of us."

Leia glanced at him, at the cut over his right eye, the red ring around his wrist. She didn't comment.

Luke sighed. He thought he'd been hiding how much the injuries hurt better than that.

"Well, I guess it's decided then. What do you think, Chewie?"

Chewie roared his reluctant agreement; Han smiled slightly. "So we'll go to Bespin, we'll restock, lie low for a few weeks, then be on our merry—"

A particularly strong wind battered the door to the saloon; it blew open, chilling the room and tossing the map against the wall. Han cursed and slammed the door shut.

But Luke was looking from the map, to the door, to the sails faintly visible outside. They were still billowing, still full of wind.

Wind which had just blown the other way. . .

Luke bit his lip, and wished the sudden sense of foreboding would disappear.

* * *

When Han stepped outside to alter their course to head for Bespin, Chewie's comment sounded extremely accusatory.

"Oh, shut up, fuzzball," he muttered. "You know this is right."

More contesting.

"Look, you heard Her Highnessness! Luke and that old fossil probably brought Vader down on Alderaan; Luke and her will bring Vader down on _us_. I say we leave _them_ to lie low on Bespin, then sail off ourselves. We don't even need to restock so much to get to the Outer Rim if we're only feeding two people." On a whim, he kicked the wooden side. It didn't make him feel any better, and now his toe hurt. "They can find some other way to get to Naboo."

Chewie cocked his head, and levelled a glare at him, arguing that—

"Yeah, I know you like them, but that's your problem, not mine—" He resolutely ignored the look he got over _that_ comment. "—and I'm just trying to keep the two of us alive here, pal."

Chewie's next words sounded mournful. If he was being honest with himself, so did Han's.

"I know, buddy. But that's the truth." He sighed. "Now, go take the helm. We've got a long slog ahead of us."


	7. Shelter and Storm

The apprentice Ahsoka had heard so much about was no more than a boy, really. It was depressing to see him locked up in the brig.

Nevertheless, Vader had determined him to be a "high priority prisoner" so not only was he under lock and key, but the general crew was also banned from accessing him. Supposedly they were a security risk—the kid _had_ been fairly popular before he, you know, betrayed them—but Ahsoka doubted that, somehow. Vader just wanted to keep this whole thing as quiet as possible. And it wasn't like the crew were suicidal enough to risk Vader's wrath just to save a traitor.

What that _meant_ , though, was that the only human contact he was permitted was with her or Vader. And with her Master in a perpetually bad mood ever since he'd found out about the existence of a certain Luke Skywalker, she'd decided it would probably be best that she be the one to deliver the boy's rations for the day.

After all, they couldn't let him starve. Vader still had use for him.

Which was how Ahsoka found herself here, staring down at him through the bars. He was a truly pitiful sight.

Black hair, grown out of the sharp military cut by now. A crooked nose—it looked broken—and a face caked in blood. The place stank of sweat and urine; his clothes were stained with both.

It wasn't a pleasant sight.

Yet when he noticed her there, he raised his eyes and lifted his chin. Defiant to the last.

"What now?" he spat. "Come to interrogate me more about Luke?"

"No," she said cheerfully. She'd often found that the casual, irreverent voice of her adolescence came up in these situations—she wasn't sure whether she was grateful for or unnerved by it. "I just brought food."

His eyes alighted on the wooden plate in her hands, the crude slab of stale bread upon it, and scoffed. But his mouth watered.

Ahsoka just pushed the plate through the bars. He didn't move to take it, watching her with dark, skittish eyes.

She got the hint. She left him to his misery.

She found Vader in his cabin, sitting—as he always was—at the long desk piled with paperwork and fleet schedules. He was scowling in the way that meant the phantom pains in his right leg were acting up again, but he still seemed. . . odd. Mild, perhaps. He _had_ been in an unusually good mood when he came back from his _discussion_ with those pirates.

So she decided it was probably safe to fix a cocky smile to her face and lean against the doorjamb. The words were out of her mouth almost before she could stop them. "So. . . Skywalker, huh?"

"Watch it, Ahsoka," Vader warned without looking up from his paperwork. She ignored it. She'd stuck around with Vader for nineteen years, all along the merry, murdering way; she knew him better than anyone did.

Well, an image of Obi-Wan flashing to mind. Anyone _alive_.

Nevertheless, she _knew_ him. She knew where to push, and where to back off.

Now was the time to push.

"Luke Skywalker," she tried, feeling how the words settled on her tongue. "Nice name. Do you think Padmé picked it out?"

" _Do not say her name_." His grip on the fountain pen tightened.

Okay. So that was where _not_ to push.

"But he survived," she pushed anyway. She wasn't called _reckless_ for nothing. "Where's he been all this time?"

"With Lars."

"Ah." _That_ was a place not to be pushed as well. Ahsoka decided to heed her own advice this time.

But there was still one thing about this that was almost _guaranteed_ not to set him off.

"You have a son," she said. The awe in her voice was audible. "Your son's alive."

He sucked in a breath; stopped writing; closed his eyes. Breathed out again.

Then said, very, very quietly, "I know."

And there, buried in the anguish on his face, was the reason she'd stuck around for so long. A shadow of Anakin Skywalker, in the conflict and the sadness and the quiet joy he felt at the knowledge that despite his actions, despite Obi-Wan's actions, despite _everything_. . . His son had lived.

He had a son.

If that didn't bring Anakin back to her, she didn't know what would.

Once upon a time, she'd thought that _she_ might be able to. Nineteen years attested to her failure. _Obi-Wan_ might have, but the blood still rusting on Vader's sword proved that wrong. And Padmé, off on Naboo in her clumsy mortal form. . .

She and Anakin had loved each other. She and Vader were a different matter entirely—and Vader hated her more than _anything_.

His betrayal of her, her betrayal of him. . . There was too much history there to ever forgive. Ahsoka understood it, and honestly? She didn't blame Padmé everything she was doing. She was a songbird, a starbird, and Anakin had clipped her wings.

Her eyes drifted to the japor snippet at Vader's neck.

"What are you going to do about it?" she asked quietly. _How are you going to react to this information?_

"I'm going to find him." Vader's voice was steady in a forceful way—like he thought that if he was any less direct, he would shatter. "I'm going to find him, and then he'll join me and serve the Coruscanti Empire. With the powers of the son of the sea goddess on my side, I'll have no use for this _trinket_." He yanked the snippet from around his neck and held it up to the light, scowling. The carvings—messages of love long lost—were stark with shadow.

It used to be _us_. On _our_ side. But all that had died at Mustafar.

"And then we'll be a family," he finished. "As we were always meant to be."

 _You destroyed his home, Anakin._

 _You hunted him across the ocean._

 _You killed his mentor._

Ahsoka wanted to shake her head at his delusions, but she knew that would only bring his rage.

Delusions that were only furthered by— "And then I'll get rid of _this_ ," he shook the necklace, " _finally_ , and be free of her."

He was trading Padmé's necklace for Padmé's son. Proof of their love for proof of their love. She wondered if he realised—if she should point it out to him.

But if she did that, she knew, Anakin would never come back. And she knew that this was perhaps her one chance for her old Master, her _friend_ , to return.

That perhaps Luke Skywalker was exactly what she, and Anakin, needed.

So instead of all the criticisms she could've voiced, she just mused, in that same light tone, "Powers? That explains why you haven't caught him yet." A pointed look at the japor snippet.

He smirked, twisting the scar across his face in a disturbing way. "Indeed. He's _very_ powerful. The winds and the sea favour him—he's the son of their mistress, after all—and no one could ever hope to best him on the sea."

"Then how are _you_ going to do it?"

"I'm going to best him on land."

 _That_ was obvious enough, she had to concede. But— "How are you even gonna _find_ him?"

Vader shrugged, gaze drifting around the room and resting on the small globe in the corner. "That's simple," he said. "All we have to do is follow the wind."

* * *

Bespin was barely a smudge on the horizon when the cannons opened fire.

Luke couldn't contain his scream as one of the cannonballs blasted past the prow, missing it by a hairsbreadth, and yelled at Han, "Hey, I thought you said you knew this guy!"

"I do!" Han shouted back through gritted teeth. "And I know he's just trying to scare us."

"Well, then he's doing a fantastic job of it!" Leia snapped. "Are you _going_ to fire back, or—"

"You want them to think we're enemies for real?" Han scoffed. "Nah, I heard about this, it's just to test whether we're antsy enough to endanger any of his precious workers. Last I heard, Lando's become quite the responsible businessman." He sounded almost disgusted.

Leia snorted. "A friend of yours? I'll believe it when I see it."

"Your _Worship_ —" Whatever Han was about to say, it was lost in the string of swearing that shot out of his mouth when the ship rocked again. "He better not have damaged her permanently!"

He stormed off. For a moment, Leia looked at Luke, her expression oddly bleak.

"We're all going to die," she said mildly.

Luke shrugged. "At least we'll save Vader a lot of trouble."

* * *

They did not die. Luke was still wondering about that—and, he had to admit, he still felt like they were walking on a blade's edge as they wandered through the tiny town. The looks the locals kept shooting Han for all his ranting. . . Yes, they were definitely _not_ pleased.

Not that Han seemed to care. " _What did you think you were_ —"

"What've you done to my ship?" Lando—a dark-skinned, charming man in a dashing cape—asked. The phrase _my ship_ derailed Luke's thought process into confusion and derailed Han's ranting as well. His sentence went barrelling down a different track.

" _Your_ ship? You lost her to me—"

"As charmed as we would all be to hear the story," Leia cut in. She seemed more done with this than Luke was. "We _did_ come here for a reason?"

"Allow me to take a guess." Lando spread his arms wide, his cape swishing with the movement. "You came to me for help?"

"No," Han said stubbornly, even as Leia said, "Yes."

They glared at each other, then hastily looked away.

"Yes," Leia reiterated mutinously, throwing Han one last glare out of the corner of her eye. Luke had to stifle a smile at it. "We did."

Lando's smile, somehow, managed to become even more charming with every moment he spent looking at Leia. "Well, I'd be happy to assist, of course." He held out his hand; Leia gave her his, and he gently lifted it to his mouth to kiss it. "May I ask your name?"

"Leia," she said coyly—and pointedly, if the look she threw Han was any indication. "And you were correct—we _do_ need help. My brother and I," she nodded at Luke, ignoring Han's jerk of surprise, "hired Captain Solo to take us to Naboo, but we were attacked by pirates and ran out of supplies. He _assured_ us he had an old friend here that could help us."

"Well, that he does," Lando replied with a modest nod of his head. "I'd be happy to assist you in any way I can. Though I'm afraid I have to ask." He glanced at Luke, then Han, then fixed his eyes back on Leia. "Why did you choose to hire a smuggler to take two highborn people such as yourself and your brother," he faltered slightly when he looked from well-postured, highly-cultivated Leia to Luke, in all his slouching, Outer Rim kid glory, but continued on, "when surely Imperial transports would have been much more efficient. Not to mention cost-effective?"

Leia was silent for a moment as she struggled to find a tactful response, but Luke was fairly sure there was none to be had. He just cut in with, "Because we wanted to _avoid_ Imperials."

Lando's face, still stretched in a charming smile, froze. "I see," he said after a while. "The sort of trouble _I_ could get in trouble for, or. . ?"

"Only if they track us here, pal," Han said with a smile.

Lando laughed—slightly nervously, Luke observed, like he wasn't sure whether they were joking or not.

They weren't, but Lando didn't have to know that.

Lando _couldn't_ know that, if they were ever going to get safe harbour. As much as Luke didn't want to drag someone else into the mess he was caught in.

"I see," Lando said, that smile still fixed to his face. As slippery as Han's numerous stories had painted him to be, he did seem like a genuinely amiable person. "Well, is there anything else you need? Pirates attacks can be rough." He threw Luke a sympathetic glance, eyes lingering on the scab across the right side of his face.

"Yes, actually," Luke said before Leia could. "My sister got shot in the arm, and we're not sure how well we bandaged it. Do you have any doctors who could look over it?"

"Anything for the beautiful lady," Lando said. "Why don't you come inside," he gestured to the manor they could see just up the road, brilliant white against the rolling green of Bespin's many hills, "and I can set you up with some accommodation, and anything else you might need?"

"That would be lovely," Leia said sweetly, accepting the arm he offered her. She threw a look over her shoulder. "Are you coming, Captain Solo?"

Chewie sniggered at the look that crossed Han's face, and Luke couldn't help it—he sniggered too.

"Yeah," Han said. "I'm coming."

* * *

The sentries on duty shouted as soon as they saw land, and Vader smiled. He'd been correct in his interpretation of where the _Millennium Falcon_ would be headed, and now their destination loomed on the horizon.

"So that's Bespin," Ahsoka murmured, joining him at the prow of the ship.

"Indeed." He ran his fingers over the map he had pinned in front of him. "Supposedly uninhabited," he mused. "Evidently not."

"Probably smugglers," Ahsoka said. "Pirates. They have a lot of hideouts like these. Sometimes, in the case of slavers, they're used as trafficking centres."

Unbidden, a growl burst out of his throat. Ahsoka instantly quietened, her dark skin flushing. She knew how he felt about slavers.

"I doubt they are here," was all he said, then went back to studying the map. "Here." He placed a finger on the crescent-shaped bay marked on the far side of the island. "We'll sail around and dock here."

Ahsoka's eyebrows flew up. "We're not gonna attack?"

"Attacking would only warn them we're coming. It will be a bloodbath, a mess, and I will not risk Skywalker slipping away amidst the chaos. No," he decided, "we will target him _specifically_. He won't escape."

If Ahsoka noticed how he referred to his son as _Skywalker_ instead of something more personal, she didn't let on. "Then what're we gonna do?"

Vader considered it for a moment, watching the land on the horizon grow closer. "By now, we'll be in sight of the smugglers' settlement's scouts."

It wasn't a question, but Ahsoka answered anyway. "Yes. . .?"

"Good. Tell Captain Piett to alter our course so it appears from land that we'll sail straight past it. Then have him bring us round to dock in this bay," he jabbed a finger at the map, "and await further orders."

Ahsoka eyed the map warily. "I don't think the whole fleet's gonna fit in that bay."

"Not the whole fleet." The words came out harshly; he barely felt a tinge of regret when Ahsoka flinched. "Only the _Devastator_. The rest of the fleet shall continue sailing to Sullust, to await our rendezvous."

"Yes, Master," Ahsoka said. He cut her a sharp glance at the faint drawl in her voice, but she was already turning away. "I'll send a hawk to Admiral Ozzel with the orders."

She walked off without another word, but he wasn't looking at her. Instead, his gaze was fixed on the land moving across the horizon.

Somewhere, hidden among those rolling hills of green, was his son. Soon he'd have him, at last.

But first, he had to draw Luke to him, and he knew just how to do it.

With new purpose and resolve, he headed for Darklighter's cell.

* * *

They stayed the night in Lando's manor—a neat, well-kept place—and the next morning found Luke awkwardly tugging at the small cape the man had lent him to wear. It was. . . odd, feeling such useless fabric just hanging off his back. And the _shirt_. It had such exquisite embroidery on it, stiff and starched, that he almost feared to move in it at all.

His discomfort must have shown when he wandered into the hall assigned for breakfast, because Leia took one look at him and burst out laughing. "You look handsome."

He stuck his tongue out at her. She stuck her tongue out back.

He took the seat next to her, only to immediately regret it—now he was between Han and Leia, and it looked like they were already gearing up for their first fight of the day.

"You don't look too bad yourself, Your Highnessness," Han drawled. _He'd_ at least been allowed to wear his own clothes, looking as comfortable as ever in his loose shirt, jacket and knee-high boots.

It was true: Leia _did_ look nice. Her hair had been done up in two plaits and a bun, and she wore a long, flowing white robe over a pink dress and belt.

That didn't mean she took Han's remark as a compliment.

"At least _I_ know how to dress properly in respectable establishments," she bit right back, gesturing around at all of Lando's finery. Personally, Luke had considered it all a bit over the top, but it wasn't like he'd spent much time in 'respectable establishments' before now. "You look like you belong in—"

"I trust you're enjoying your meal?"

Luke breathed a sigh of relief. Lando stood in the doorway, wearing a cape not unlike the one he'd lent Luke, and surveyed the tense situation with an air of vague apology. "I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?"

"No," Leia said quickly. "You're not." She nodded to a spare chair on the other side of the table. "We'd be thrilled if you would join us, actually."

"I'd be honoured." Lando took the seat, and helped himself to some of the fruit piled in the middle of the table. "How did you sleep?"

"Great!"

"Alright."

"Very well, thank you."

They all blinked at each other when they answered at the same time, then glanced away.

"Thank you," Luke said earnestly, catching Lando's eye. "You've been really kind."

Lando spread his hands with a smile. "Well, it's the least I can do for a friend in need. No to mention I've got no love for the Empire myself. Speaking of which," he added, "my scouts spotted a large amount of ships just on the horizon. We think it was the Imperial fleet."

All of Luke's warm contentedness vanished, like he'd been doused in cold water. " _What_?"

Han had sat up in his chair, like he was ready to bolt there and then. But—

"Did they come near here?" Leia asked, that calculating look in her eye. "Did they. . ." She trailed off, and the sudden panic in her voice became rawer and rawer.

Lando shook his head. "My scouts say they just sailed right past. Must've figured the place was empty or something, I don't know. But from my experience with Imperials, if they didn't kill you they didn't find you."

"That's my experience as well," Han muttered, but his hand edged away from his waist—he'd brought a _pistol_ to the breakfast table, Luke was horrified to note, Aunt Beru would have _killed him_ —and rested back on his thigh. "So, what d'you think happened?"

Lando shrugged. "Who knows? Looks like the fleet's headed to Sullust—there has been increased rebel activity there—but we can't know for sure. And they _definitely_ didn't work out you were here. You don't have to leave just yet."

"Thank Amidala," Leia murmured, too quietly for anyone but Luke to hear, "for small mercies."

"So when _do_ you guys think you'll be leaving?" Lando asked.

"Not for a while," Han said, just as Leia said, "Soon."

They glared at each other. Luke, sitting between them and playing with his food, felt like his head was melting from the heat of it.

"We'll need to get going _soon_ ," Leia insisted. "My moth— my contact on Naboo is waiting for us. We need to get there as soon as possible."

"With help from some of my men, I could have you loaded up with supplies and ready to sail by this evening," Lando offered.

"No," Han said firmly. "No one works the _Falcon_ 'cept me and Chewie." Luke raised an eyebrow. "And the kid," Han amended. "But I'm not letting any of your men on—they'll just damage her somehow."

Then, almost like he could feel Leia's ire simmering higher and higher, he capped it off with a sunny smile and, "Besides, Her Worship still needs time for her arm to heal."

Leia thumped the table. "I. Am. Fine," she hissed.

Lando cocked his head. "That hit would prove your point."

"The way she winced when she did it would prove mine." Han turned his gaze on Luke— _finally_. Someone was talking to him, instead of talking over him. "What about you, kid? Should we stay or go?"

Leia was looking at him. Han was looking at him. Lando was looking at him.

"Uhhh. . ." He cleared his throat. "I. . . don't want to intrude for too long. . ."

"Exactly!"

"It's perfectly alright."

". . .but Leia's arm _does_ need to heal a bit more. . ."

"I'm _fine_."

"Listen to the kid, Princess!"

". . .and," he bit his lip. He was hesitant to agree with Han, because he could tell that _something_ was up with him, that there was something he wasn't telling them, but. . . "I think we should stay. Just for a few more days." He glanced at Lando, almost shyly. "If that's alright with you?"

"It would be my pleasure," Lando assured him.

Han clapped. The sound was jarring in the awkward silence of the room. "Great!" he said. "I'll go tell Chewie the good news—he doesn't need to wake up so early tomorrow to get everything done!" He was up and out of his chair before Luke could blink. "Thanks for the breakfast, Lando!"

Luke twisted in his seat so fast he got whiplash, and launched himself to his feet. "No, wait, Han, I need to talk to—"

The door slammed shut.

"—you." He huffed a breath. "I. . . guess I'll do it later then."

He glanced back at Leia, who was doing her utmost not to look at him. "Leia?"

When she did look up, there was no discernible glare in her gaze—none like those she'd been giving Han, anyway—but he squirmed under it nevertheless.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Lando," he said, "and I'll see you later. But. . ." He made a weak gesture at the door.

Lando inclined his head with a smile.

Luke took the chance to flee.

* * *

"We've finished setting up the camp as you instructed, my lord," Piett reported quietly, his posture crisp. "Is it to your liking?"

"It is adequate."

Vader surveyed the area. The canvas tents were arranged in a rough horseshoe, the criss-crossing lines making them difficult to walk between without care—the only real way to get into the area in the centre was through the bottom of the horseshoe, which faced a barren ring of land without trees or shrubbery, where there'd be no cover.

But his attention was caught and held by the whipping post erected in the centre of the horseshoe. That, and the whole site's proximity to the green hills and sheer cliffs Bespin was famous for—one which amplified sound a hundredfold, carrying it for miles and miles. They made sure to be quiet while treading around here, as unnecessary as it was; whispers never carried far.

But _screams_. . .

"Bring Darklighter," Vader ordered, watching the sun sink closer to the horizon. "We begin at dawn."


	8. Capture

**Alternate chapter title: Luke Has A Very Bad Day.**

 **All jokes aside, this chapter does contain torture (not really described, but it's there) and a character death, so be warned about that.**

* * *

"Han!"

The next day, the dock was empty and quiet enough—it _was_ the crack of dawn, after all—that those who were there jumped out of their skins when they heard Luke's shout. Han was no exception—and when he spotted him, his eyes went wide with panic.

"Kid?" he asked, scrambling for composure. He almost made to drop the crate in his hands, as though Luke hadn't already seen it. "What're you doing up?"

"I came to talk to you," Luke said earnestly, but the more he looked around—at the tension in Han's shoulders, at the sizeable supplies on the _Falcon_ , at Chewie in what he recognised as a bad mood—the more suspicious he got. "You seemed off a little yesterday morning—I've been trying to talk to you since then, but you keep avoiding me."

"Yeah, well." Han _did_ drop the crate then, and scratched the back of his neck. "You know how it is. We got a lot of work to do, getting her all loaded up and everything."

"Then I should be down here, helping."

"No!" Luke gave Han a look at the vehemence in his voice; Han scowled. "I'm just _saying_ ," the man said defensively, "that if Lando thinks you and Her Highnessness are siblings, you'd better act the part."

"We _are_ siblings."

"Yeah, whatever." Han was still doing his best to act disinterested. He shouted up to Chewie, "Hey, fuzzball! I can't carry all these crates myself!"

"I'll help with some," Luke offered. Before Han could protest, he'd already grabbed one and bounded up the gangplank.

Only to stop dead at the sight of their stores. They were near full—and the ship was ready to sail.

He could hear Han behind him, cursing, but Luke's voice was deadly calm. "Going somewhere?"

He still wasn't looking at Han, but he could almost sense the hesitation radiating off of him. "Look, kid," he began uncertainly. "It's just a quick trip away—we'll be back to pick up you and Leia when you're ready to go, another week or so."

Luke eyed the stores. Those were _not_ supplies for two people on a weeklong trip. "Don't lie, Han." He turned around then, tilting back his head to look him in the eye. He hated himself for the way his voice cracked when he said, "You're leaving us here." He hated himself for the burning in his eyes, too.

But damn it! It _hurt_. He'd thought Han and Chewie had accepted him into their crew, thought he'd found another home after his old one had burned down around him, and now. . .

Han was _leaving_?

"That's why you wanted us to stay on Bespin for longer," he realised. "So you could sail off like this without looking suspicious." Silence fell. Luke blinked, hard, to keep the tears at bay. "I get it. I get it."

"Kid," Han said, then trailed off. "I don't want Vader on my tail again. I gotta look after my own skin."

"I get it," Luke repeated. "You've got to take care of yourself. It's what you're best at, anyway."

He turned away, and made for the gangplank. He needed to get away—away from the smuggler he'd thought he could trust, away from the ship he'd learned to respect, away from the sea he'd always loved.

He needed to get _away_.

"Kid, wait! Kid!"

He was down the gangplank now, flat out running. Running, through the streets, the townhouses all blurring with speed and tears.

"Kid!"

He heard running footsteps behind him; he ran faster. Faster and faster and—

" _Kid_!"

A hand on his shoulder; he twisted round to wrench it off. He glared up at Han. "Go away! Just leave!"

"Luke. . ."

"Just leave," Luke reiterated breathlessly, casting his gaze to the east. The sun was fully above the horizon now, the sky a vibrant pink. "That's what you want to do."

Han opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again—

And then the screaming started.

Luke's eyes blew wide. He glanced around wildly; thankfully, he clearly wasn't the only one who could hear it. Everyone else on the street who'd stopped to listen were growing increasingly confused.

It wasn't a _loud_ screaming, but nor was it quiet—rather, it seemed to be coming from very far away. Echoed and distorted, it came off as almost monstrous in how. . . _unnatural_ it sounded.

And how familiar.

"This island is haunted!" someone shouted.

"What—" Luke wasn't sure if he was breathless out of fear or the running. "What is that?"

Han shook his head, their fight momentarily forgotten. "I don't know," he admitted, "but I sure hope Lando does."

* * *

"Of course I sent someone to look into it!" Lando said, leaning back at his desk. "They just returned with their report. Apparently," he cast Han a look edged with bitterness, a slight grudge, "some Imperial friends of yours have docked in the bay behind the Tibanna hills."

Leia frowned, stepping up to the embroidered map of Bespin that hung on the wall of Lando's study. "Is there any chance it could be a coincidence?"

"Well of course it could be a coincidence!"

Han scowled. "I don't like it though."

"Neither do I," Lando bit back. "Just because it _could_ be one doesn't mean I think it _is_."

"So what now?" Luke asked. He had to admit, he was still a little antsy from his fight with Han. "Are you kicking us out?"

Lando's eyes blew wide. "Of course not!" His horror seemed genuine; Luke relaxed a little. "You'll just have to lay low for a while."

"I don't know. . ." Leia crossed her arms, still studying the bay on the map, like she could visualise the Imperial navy docked there. "I'd rather just get out of here."

"Yeah, we all know that, Your Worship."

"I don't remember asking for _your_ opinion, you—"

"But what actually _is_ the screaming?" Luke cut across their argument, looking to Lando. "Imperial ships don't make that noise. What is it?"

Lando winced. "Vader seems to have set up a camp near the foothills," he said carefully. "We think it's for his higher officers, but he also seems to be torturing a prisoner there." _Everyone_ winced at that implication. "It's unlikely he knew this, but the cliffs and hills in that area reflect sound very loudly—we can hear the prisoner's screams from here, poor man."

"Is there any chance we could save him?"

Lando turned his gaze on Leia. "Not without giving away our position here," he admitted. "This _is_ a secret settlement. I don't want to risk—"

"What did the prisoner look like?"

Leia and Lando blinked in unison, then turned to look at Luke. Han just seemed confused.

Luke repeated doggedly, "The prisoner—the one being tortured. What did he look like?"

Lando furrowed his brow, but answered, "Quite tall, pale skin, dark eyes. . . and wearing what was left of an apprentice's uniform."

Luke nodded, but he knew the gesture didn't fool anyone. There was a weight in his stomach; his face had gone ashen.

Leia asked, very carefully, "What's wrong, Luke?"

He did his best to look her in the eye. "Remember I mentioned my friend Biggs? Served as an apprentice on the _Devastator_?" He turned his gaze on Han. "Cut the rope to help us escape at Mindor?"

Leia had gone pale now as well. "You don't think. . . They couldn't have. . ."

"Well I don't think they could have accepted him back with open arms, either," Luke snapped. "It _might_ be him."

"We've no way of knowing for sure," Lando soothed. "It might not be him."

" _Might_."

"Look, kid—" Han began, taking a step forward, but Luke glared at him. He stepped back again and shut up.

Leia said, "Luke, can I talk to you outside?"

He was taken aback a little, but nodded.

She took his hand gently, and led him out of the room, down the corridor, to a small balcony that overlooked the sea. The sight of the water—the smell of it, the sound of it—calmed him; from her smile, he knew that'd been her intention.

She sat down on the bench there. He settled down next to her, and waited for her to speak.

"It's a trap, Luke."

He blinked once. Twice. " _What_?"

"It's a trap." She waited a moment for the words to sink in, then barrelled on. "There's no way Vader just so _happened_ to torture the _one person_ he has access to who you'd come running to save, in a place where _you'd be able to hear him scream_. It's a trap."

Luke shook his head, more out of denial than disagreement. "But—"

"Vader _must_ know where we are," she insisted. "He couldn't set up camp on one side of the island and just _happen_ to miss the entire town on the other side—he's smarter than that. But attacking us here doesn't serve his purposes, so he's going to lure you out using Biggs's pain as bait."

"But. . ." Luke shook his head again. "Why _me_?"

 _Leia_ looked taken aback at that. "What do you mean by that?"

"Why lure _me_ out? I'm not the one he's chasing."

Leia frowned. "Then who do you think he's chasing?"

He paused, thinking aloud. "He was chasing Ben, until Ben died on Alderaan. Then I assumed he was chasing you—you're the Governor's niece, after all."

"How would he know I was with you?"

Luke shrugged. "He could have tracked your ship to where it sank. Those pirates we encountered could have told him."

"Possible," Leia conceded, "but unlikely. I think his hunt is something personal—tracking me down wouldn't be."

"Revenge?" Luke suggested. "We _did_ embarrass him at Mindor."

Leia shook her head. "I don't think so. It doesn't feel right. But I think he's after you, Luke."

"But Leia," he leaned forward to look her in the eye, " _why would he be after me_?"

She held his gaze for a moment, then let her eyes drift across the horizon. They could still hear Biggs's screams from here.

"I think it's something to do with the fact that our mother couldn't raise us," she said. "I think it's to do with the fact we didn't grow up together. I think it's something personal."

" _Biggs_ is something personal."

"I know." Her voice strained a little on the words. "I _know_ , Luke. Alderaan was personal as well." He winced, but she continued on regardless. "But you can't let it provoke you into doing something stupid. Please, Luke." She caught his hand. Squeezed it tightly. "Please don't go getting yourself killed. I need you."

 _So does Biggs_ , Luke thought, but voicing that would only cause a further argument.

So he just squeezed her hand back, and murmured, "I won't."

* * *

The screams didn't last _all day_ —the prisoner's voice would have broken by then. Instead, they took a break a few hours after dawn and restarted at dusk. Luke didn't know how he was supposed to sleep when all he could hear was his best friend, screaming.

If he hadn't already made his decision, it would have swayed him. Instead, it just cemented his resolve.

He'd made a hasty copy of the map in Lando's office that afternoon; he unfurled it now, studying the meticulous ink markings to work out where to go. Lando had said Vader had set up a few miles south of the Tibanna pass, so he'd head over there by moonlight and hope he was going the right way.

And if he wasn't. . . Well, he could just follow the screams.

He'd already written a note to Leia—he folded it up neatly now, and printed her name on the outside of it before placing it on the bedtime table.

He quickly dressed back into the clothes he'd worn on the _Falcon_ , the blue shirt, the patchwork trousers. As he strapped the sword belt round his waist, the scabbard knocking lightly against his leg, he glanced outside. He couldn't see the sea, but the night was clear, and the moon bobbed round and bright like an oyster's pearl. And the sea _was_ the moon, really—every wave, every tide, came from her.

So the sight of her calmed him as he steeled himself, and went to save his friend.

* * *

The stars were just as bright as the moon when he crept through the hills. It was a long walk to make at night—a few times he worried he'd stumble off the edge in the dark, and no one would find his body—but he made do. Even when the moon went behind a cloud and most of her light vanished, he made do. Even when the screams went silent again and he had nothing to follow, he made do.

He had to. Biggs was counting on him.

All in all, it wasn't difficult to find the camp—he was beginning to suspect that Leia was right, and it _had_ been a trap. But whatever Vader's aim was, it couldn't be _him_ —it had to be Leia. Biggs was the target because he was the best one he could access, not because it was Luke he wanted. The Governor of Alderaan was known for his kindness and charity; Vader must have figured that the man's niece wouldn't blink at the idea of helping her friend's friend escape.

Well, Vader would be disappointed. But if they were watching for several people, they might not notice him. . .

He spotted the fire first. He was still up on the hills when he did, but who else could it be? He made his way down, carefully, carefully, carefully.

Sure enough, upon closer inspection the tents bore Imperial insignia. They were arranged in a rough horseshoe, with the fire situated where the break in the ring was. And by the light of that fire, tied to a whipping post in the centre. . .

He wasn't sure it was Biggs. There was no way he _could_ be sure it was Biggs, from the darkness and the sheer _brutality_ that had been done to the figure. But it had to be him.

Luke's hand inched towards his sword.

Fear gripped him. He didn't want to go closer. He didn't want to see what had been done to his best friend because of him, he didn't want to walk into an Imperial camp when he was a fugitive of the Empire, he didn't _want_ to walk across the unsheltered glade, obvious as could be in the firelight, and walk into what looked to be an effective prison configuration. . .

But this was Biggs.

Biggs, who would built model boats with him and natter about the life they'd have at sea.

Biggs, who only had one dimple when he smiled and whose left eye scrunched up more than his right.

Biggs, his _best friend_ , who had _only ever wanted to sail_.

So he very quietly drew his sword, and walked into the firelight.

He knew his blade was flashing with every motion, lighting him up for anyone who cared to look, but he didn't care. And. . . no one seemed to be looking, anyway.

No one was around—the only sound he could hear was the steady breathing of the officers he assumed were asleep in the tents. Where was the sentry? Who had they put on watch?

The questions flitted across his mind—then they were wiped away when the figure at the post stirred slightly.

He was at his side instantly. "Biggs?"

"Huh?" the figure got out, voice weak and thin. "Luke? 'S'that. . . that you. . ?"

" _Yes_." The word was a sigh. Relief flooded him. "Just— just hang in there, Biggs, I'm gonna get these ropes off you, then—"

But Biggs was shaking his head. "Luke, there's no point. I'm dying anyway. Luke, he wants. . ." Luke leaned in closer as Biggs's voice trailed off into a whisper. "He wants _you_."

Luke shook his head. "That's ridiculous," he consoled. "And it's ridiculous that you're going to die, as well. So come on," he lifted his sword, taking a fistful of rope into his hand, "I'm gonna get you out of. . ."

Then he froze.

There, behind him, was the unmistakable whine of a sword being drawn from a scabbard.

". . .here."

"Luke," Biggs whispered, the fear in his voice palpable. "Luke, get out of here—"

He ignored him. Instead, very slowly, he let go of the ropes. Gripped his sword tighter. Stood up.

And turned around.

His heart nearly stopped beating.

Vader cut a menacing figure on any day: his towering physique, broad shoulders, air of authority and general _unpleasantness_ could make any man, navy or not, quake in his boots. But it was worse here.

The golden light seemed to touch a spark to him, like a living flame. From the wavy amber locks bound harshly behind his head, to the shimmering threads in his black and red jacket, to the molten metal of his boot buckles and sword, everything about him was ablaze. And he just stood there as he burned, immovable as a mountain, his fist wrapped tightly around the hilt of a massive sword.

Luke glared at him. Vader didn't quite glare back—instead he _smirked_ , the action twisting the skin on his face to more pronounce the scar over his right eye.

A lot like Luke's own injury.

Something inside him quailed at the idea—just as he quailed at Biggs's implication from so long ago that he could look _anything_ like this monster, from the hair colour to the cleft in the chin to the eyes, bright and fierce.

 _My wound won't scar_ , he told himself firmly. _Lando's medics said so_. But the unease lingered.

It lingered, then tripled when Vader said, as though savouring the name on his tongue, "Skywalker."

Luke carefully, methodically, _purposefully_ held his sword up between them. The blade trembled with the rest of him. "Vader."

He meant it to come off as angry, righteous, _incensed_ — _you killed my aunt and uncle, you killed Ben, you chased us across the seas, you tortured my best friend_ —but his voice failed him. It came out weak and thin.

Afraid.

"Luke. . ." Biggs whispered behind him, but he didn't dare tear his gaze off of Vader. "Luke, don't—"

"Why are you doing this," Luke demanded, and _there_. His voice rang loud and clear. "Let him go."

Vader cocked his head slowly, staring at Luke as intently as Luke was staring at him. There was a small smile on his lips. Luke didn't like it one bit.

"You have your mother's strength in you, Skywalker," he said, and was that Luke's imagination or was there a sort of _wistfulness_ behind the anger? "But you are no match for me. Not yet."

"Oh yeah?" Luke didn't _disagree_ with the sentiment, per se, but like hell was he going to back down! "Prove it. Let my friend go, and fight me." His hands squeezed tighter onto the hilt of the blade.

"Luke," Biggs whispered, " _don't_. Run."

"I can't leave you. I _won't_ leave you."

"Get out of here. Run."

"Biggs, _shut up_!"

"You heard him, Darklighter," Vader said. "You've served your purpose. Now shut up."

" _You leave him alone you piece of_ —"

Vader attacked.

Luke, still fuming over his insult to Biggs, barely got his sword up in time to parry. His muscles screamed with the effort—Vader was _strong_ , and despite the wooden leg, _nimble_. He was everywhere Luke tried to strike, but somehow, _he never hit him_.

Luke was getting hit, though—on his arms, his leg, one glancing blow to his bicep that was deep and superficial and hurt like hell. He gritted his teeth, sucked in a breath, and kept fighting.

Vader's blows slammed down from above him: he retreated back. From his left: he retreated to the right. Back and back, round and round, until. . .

Until Vader stood between him and Biggs.

Luke stumbled back, a shallow cut on his forehead leaking blood into his eye. He had an unpleasant sense of déjà vu again— _that woman flicking her whip, blinding pain down the side of his face_ —then shook it off when he realised what was happening.

Vader wasn't bearing down on him anymore. He was walking back. Back, to where Biggs was—

" _No!_ "

But Vader brought his blade down. It arced in the air, the curve of a striking silver serpent, then swept down. It sheared through Biggs with a horrible, crunching finality; the wind caught Luke's scream and carried it far, far away.

He watched the two halves fall to the ground.

 _You've served your purpose_ , Vader had said.

And— and now—

He screamed again, a throttled sound that wrenched at his throat as much as it did his heart. He roared as he yanked his sword back into position and swung it, _desperately_ , something black and hateful uncoiling in his heart with nothing but the need to punish and avenge and take and take and take—

Vader parried his blows with ease. He even had the nerve to smirk as he did it.

"What's this, Skywalker?" he taunted, and Luke _knew_ he was trying to make him angrier, _knew_ it was just sabotaging him further, _but it worked anyway_ — "I was told you were the greatest swordsman on the high seas." Scream, strike, parry. "This is just pathetic."

Another scream, another strike, another parry.

"Who did you learn your technique from?" Vader continued, still with that _smile_ on his face. "They're either ashamed or as pathetic as you are."

"I taught myself," he got out through gritted teeth, staggering back from Vader, just for a moment. He needed the respite. Vader seemed willing to give it to him as well—what was it, but a little more time to play with his food? "Because my father was killed by pirates, and I swore I'd never go down the same way." He spat a glob of blood out of his mouth; he still couldn't see anything but red in his right eye. "Not to pirates, and certainly not to _you_."

He attacked again.

But Vader didn't seem interested in taunting him, this time. The humour had vanished from his face, leaving the same hardness that had scared him so long ago when Biggs had pointed him out on Tatooine's docks. His blue eyes were narrowed; every blow Luke tried, he returned in kind, until Luke was battered and bruised and near breaking point.

And then the breaking point came.

Luke swung, wildly off, and all Vader had to do was reach out a hand to catch his wrist. And squeeze.

Luke cried out as the grip ground the delicate bones in his wrist together, bruising and bruising. His fingers spasmed; his sword fell to the floor.

He took a ragged breath as he waited for the killing blow.

But it never came.

Instead, Vader just stared down at him, his massive sword held in one hand, Luke's wrist clamped in the other. When he spoke, his voice was deadly. "Who told you your father was killed by pirates."

Luke spat in his face.

Vader dropped his sword on the grass and _shook_ Luke, hard, his free hand wrapped in the fabric of his shirt. " _Who told you_."

Luke still writhed in his grip, ignoring the question; Vader planted a solid kick on his shins and he went down. For one blissful instant, he was free, and Luke made to bolt for it—then Vader's hands were pinning him down.

"Was it Obi-Wan?"

A heartbeat, two, then Vader shook him again. Luke's brain rattled in his skull. " _Tell me!_ "

"Fine," he spat out, like the words were poison. "It was my uncle. Ben confirmed it."

Luke didn't know what he expected Vader's reaction to be—anger, ranting, _more_ taunting?—but it wasn't the silence that followed. With every moment of it he felt his nerves fray further, like the ropes he climbed on the _Falcon_ , like—

Like the rope around his ankles now.

"Hey!" He jerked his head, arched his back, wriggled hard, but it was tied tight. And now Vader was fastening one round his wrists as well. " _Get off_ —"

He was cut off with a yelp when Vader grabbed his collar and yanked him to his feet. " _You_ —"

"Walk."

Luke scowled. "How _can_ I walk? You tied my—"

A flip of Vader's foot, the flash of the sword suddenly in his hand and shearing through the ropes at his ankles.

"Just to keep you still while I did the hands," Vader said, not without amusement. He shoved Luke's shoulder; he stumbled forward. "Walk."

Luke did not walk. Instead, he just glared up at Vader with all the dignity he could muster. "What now?" he accused. "You have me. You gonna lure Leia here as well?"

Luke took pride in the fact that, for a single moment, he seemed to have completely and utterly _baffled_ the man.

"I have no interest in the Governor's niece." Vader scoffed. "All I wanted was _you_."

Leia's words flashed to mind: _I think he's after you, Luke._

But— " _Why_?"

"Because you have your mother's strength," Vader bent to pick up Luke's sword from the ground, and sheathed it at his side, "and your father's blood." He placed a heavy hand on Luke's shoulder.

"Walk."


	9. Truth and Consequence

Leia's dreams were full of screaming. So when she woke up to silence, she immediately knew something was wrong.

 _Luke_. Luke had done something stupid, hadn't he?

Had he even—

 _No_. No, he wouldn't. He'd _promised_.

But the thought stuck, and it nagged at her until she threw off the bedsheets and took the corridors running. There were only a few doors between her guest room and Luke's, but it felt like an eternity before she skidded to a halt, the plush carpet rubbing against the soles of her feet.

There weren't locks on the doors. There was nothing stopping her from barging in and reassuring herself.

But she hesitated.

Was she overreacting? Hysterical?

Perhaps. Probably.

 _Probably_ she'd charge right in there, wake her brother—who was still there, still sleeping, safe and sound!—and all round make a general nuisance of herself. Her uncle had always warned her that while he and her aunt loved her for it, her brash nature could annoy or offend some people—a near _fatal_ sin for a governor's niece.

And Luke was her brother, she loved him, but she'd known him for a few weeks at most.

She'd known _of_ him for much longer though, their mother had talked about him in the letters—what did she used to say?

 _Don't worry about being called reckless_ — _I've heard that your brother is just as reckless as you are._

Reckless. Reckless, like rushing off into the middle of the night to save his best friend.

Luke _couldn't_ have done it. He'd _promised._

But deep down, she knew he had.

Because it was exactly what she would have done, and _your brother is just as reckless as you are_.

So when she swung the door open to see an empty bed, she wasn't surprised. She was just grateful to see the white slip of a note on the bedside table.

She released a breath, walked over, and picked it up. _LEIA_ was printed on it in neat, even letters.

She unfolded it carefully, and smiled at the rest of the letter—written in that same even hand. She supposed that if Luke had had to keep a legible record of customers at the blacksmith's from a young age, he _would_ develop easy-to-read handwriting.

But all of this speculation was just a distraction and she knew it. She steeled herself, and read:

 _Dear Leia,_

 _I know I promised. I'm sorry. But I can still hear him screaming, and I will not stand by idly as my best friend is tortured. I owe him more than that._

 _If Vader captures me, don't come looking. I still think it's you he's after and I don't want you to put yourself in danger for me. Continue on to Naboo. And, please, tell Padmé Naberrie I would've loved to meet her._

 _I don't know if you'll show this to Han, but if not then tell him that I forgive him for trying to leave. I understand why he wanted to_ — _we're not exactly the easiest pair to handle. Maybe he's left already and it's too late, but that doesn't change my opinion of him. I forgive him._

 _And I hope you can forgive_ me _for lying to you. I always knew I would go and rescue Biggs. And I think that deep down, you must've known it too._

 _I love you._

 _Luke_

Something wet landed on the paper, smearing the ink; she angrily scrubbed at her face with the back of her hand. _Damn_ him—damn him, and damn Vader, and damn the whole world for taking _everyone_ from her.

Taking a minute to hate everything felt good; a moment later her heartbeat settled and her resolve hardened. She was Leia Organa, born Leia Skywalker, with all the strength and intelligence both names implied. She would not stand and cry. She would get her brother back.

And then she would get even.

* * *

The first step to getting even was, naturally, waking Han up.

" _What_ , Your Highnessness?" he growled, still half asleep. He'd forfeited Lando's offer of a bed in the manor and decided instead to bunk on the Falcon. Chewie had joined him. "Can't you see I'm try'na sleep?"

"Get up," she said, her voice harsher than she'd intended. The walk here, the streets grey and still in the pre-dawn light, had frayed her nerves. "Luke's gone."

"The kid?" Han mumbled groggily. "What about him?"

"I said he's _gone_!"

Her shout woke Chewie, who stirred in the first mate's cabin just next door. He howled a question through the walls; she shouted back. "He's _gone_. He went to save Biggs, and—"

"The kid's crazy," Han muttered, _finally_ sitting up and taking note of the situation.

"—he hasn't come back," she finished, glaring half-heartedly at him. Half-heartedly, because at least he was paying attention now. "I have the location of where Vader's camp was, from Lando. Are you going to come with me to find it?"

"And risk facing Vader?" Han snorted. "No thanks." But his scepticism was lacklustre. He tried not to show it, but he was worried, too.

And Leia knew just how to push him. "I thought you might say that." She let her voice harden again as she stood up, turning to leave. "Luke told me you were going to leave us. I don't know why I thought this would change your mind."

Chewie roared something. Han hesitated. "Wait."

She turned her cutting gaze on him. " _What_ , Captain Solo?"

Han pursed his lips, conflicted. Leia had no doubt he was running through the argument he'd had with Luke the previous day—she assumed from the note that it was about him leaving, and the reason Luke had looked so upset even before he'd found out about Biggs.

Then his face hardened, and she knew he'd made his decision. "Let's go."

* * *

It didn't take too long to find the site of Luke and Vader's confrontation. Not only were Lando's directions detailed, but there was still the burnt out ashes of a fire pit in the glade.

The sun was just beginning to rise. Golden rays touched everything: the torn up grass, Han's pained expression. . . and the dead body lying there in two pieces.

Leia's stomach revolted at the sight of it. _Please_ — _no. Not Luke._

It wasn't Luke.

She could tell that much upon closer inspection, crouching down—even with dark blood matting the hair, the features scarred and bloody, she could tell it wasn't Luke. It was a man their age, with dark hair and the ruined attire of a Imperial apprentice.

 _Biggs_. This was Biggs. So where—

And she knew.

She'd been right: Vader wasn't after her. He was after Luke.

And now he had him.

The breath was expelled from her chest in a ragged sob. _Luke. . ._

"He's gone."

She turned her face up to look at Han, and didn't bother to hide her tears.

Even Han himself looked. . . lost. . . standing in the glade. Staring at the ground.

"Well, he didn't go without a fight," he observed hollowly, and kicked a clump of displaced mud. It rolled a few feet, then dropped into stillness again.

Another beat of silence, only the birds chirping for the new dawn. Chewie murmured something, then—

"You're right, Chewie." Han lifted his chin. "We have to go rescue him."

Leia rose to her feet. "You're not serious?"

"Like he wouldn't do the same for us."

"That is an Imperial warship! Vader will kill you!"

"Then I'll see you in hell!"

They glared at each other for a moment, then Han sneered, "Look, Princess, if you don't wanna save him then you can stay here with Lando, but—"

"Of _course_ I want to save him!" she shouted back. "He's my _brother_! But this is not the way!"

"I don't care whatever lie you told Lando—"

"It wasn't a lie!" She marched right up to him, and jabbed her finger in his chest. "He is my _brother_ , my _twin brother_ , and I did _not_ finally find him just to lose him again a few weeks later!"

The revelation slid off Han like water off a seabird's back: he looked momentarily shocked, then immediately focused on the more pertinent details of the situation. She had to admire that about him.

Even if her ire rose at, "Then why don't you wanna rescue him!"

"Of _course_ I want to rescue him! But us?" She gestured around sharply. "Three people? What chance to we stand?"

"Lando could—"

"Lando has a responsibility to the people in this town; he won't put any of them at risk for a fool's errand and you know it," she snapped. "Our _only_ hope is to get to mine and Luke's mother on Naboo and ask for _her_ help."

"Your _mother_?" Han's mouth was practically hanging open by now.

Leia drew herself up to her full height. "Padmé Naberrie," she said, "leader of the Rebellion. My birth mother. _She_ can help us get Luke back." One heartbeat, she could see Han's characteristic hesitation—and closed the deal with, " _And_ she'll get you the money you're owed."

Han blew out a breath. "Alright," he said. "You up for that, Chewie?"

Unsurprisingly, Chewie was very up for it indeed.

"Alright, then." He glanced at her arm, the injury there. It was almost fully healed. "Guess you got your wish, Your Highnessness: we leave today. The _Falcon_ 's already ready to go."

"Then let's go," she said, all of her anger draining out of her at once. "It'll be at least two weeks until we reach Naboo." Han nodded his affirmation, and they made to head back to the town.

But when Leia cast one look back, she found her eyes drawn to the disfigured corpse of Biggs Darklighter, and a horrible, unwelcome thought crossed her mind:

It would take two weeks to reach Naboo.

Would Luke even last that long?

* * *

Luke Skywalker's profanity, spat and shouted in the confines of his cell, could be heard easily from Ahsoka's quarters. That, and his insults and threats, told her exactly what had happened on Bespin.

Even so, she wanted to hear it from Vader.

"I see you were successful," she said on entering his quarters again. He grunted, barely looking up from his desk. But she knew him—there was anger simmering under his hard expression, and something akin to disappointment.

"I was," he confirmed, still not looking up from whatever letter he was writing. "The boy finally ate. The drugs in the food sent him to sleep. He should be awake by tomorrow, but the crew doesn't need to listen to his childish protests all night."

 _I don't want to hear him scream how much he hates me all night._

"You did torture and kill his best friend."

"To find _him_!" The explosion was harsh and quick. He slammed his fist on the table, then instantly reigned the anger in again.

"Have you told him that?"

Silence.

Ahsoka sighed. Why did he have to be so _melodramatic_? "How is he gonna build a relationship with you if you won't tell him what that relationship _is_? How is he gonna love you?"

"I don't need him to love me. I just need him loyal to me."

 _Liar_ , she thought, but didn't say. _Couldn't_ say. Doing so would just anger him, and if she angered him he might do something that would jeopardise the whole reason she was here.

"Why did you kill the Darklighter boy?"

"He was a traitor. He needed to die."

"In front of Luke?" There—she'd said his first name. It was too easy for Vader to hold the boy at arm's length when he was _Skywalker_ , too easy for him to deny that every time he hurt him, he hurt himself.

Was that what this was? Vader trying desperately to push Luke away even as he wanted him to love him? Just to hurt himself?

Vader's eyes were still fixed on the table. "Luke loved him—"

Ah. So he was _jealous_ —

"—and he needed to be made an example of."

Ahsoka blinked. " _What_?"

Then it hit her. "You haven't told those pirates to stop hunting the _Millennium Falcon_."

Vader picked up his pen again and continued with his paperwork. "The events of today prove that my son will not cooperate easily alone. They also prove he is too attached to his friends."

Something in her chest went cold. "Threatening them won't make Luke love you," then, before he could deny that was what he wanted, she added, "and it won't make him loyal to the Empire, either. You can't control people like that."

 _People_ shouldn't _be controlled like that_ , was something else she wanted to say, but couldn't. It was too much like the discourse on slavery, and that had always proved a touchy subject.

"I can."

Ahsoka winced. "Judging by what I've seen, Luke won't exactly take to it."

"He will learn," was all Vader said. "Eventually. If it takes years," he pushed that sheet of paper aside, and reached for the next one, "he will learn."

* * *

Vader regretted the necessity of keeping his son in a cell, he really did. But it was unavoidable; he didn't have a suitable room currently on hand to house him in, and he wouldn't risk drawing attention to the situation by kicking Piett or Ahsoka—the only other two on the ship who had rooms to themselves—into the deckhouse.

Somehow, he doubted that Luke would be amenable to that excuse.

His son glared at him, huddled in the corner of the cell with his legs drawn up to his chest. He was shivering, Vader noticed with a pang to his chest—it was cold in the brig, and damp. He would look into getting the boy his own quarters soon enough, but until then perhaps he could bring down a blanket. . .?

That would be best, he decided. Especially considering Luke seemed. . . less than friendly, towards him at the moment; a little kindness could go a long way. And once he told him the truth. . .

His fists, the organic _and_ metal one, clenched at his side. That was something he needed to get on with. Surely, Luke would forgive him the means of finding him once he understood _why_ this all had to happen.

"What do you want, Vader?" Luke spat, pulling him out of his musings.

Vader hooked one of his thumbs into his belt. He saw Luke's eyes follow the movement, wary, then slide along the blade of the great sword hanging there. His expression soured further.

"What do you know of this?" Vader asked, drawing his attention to the _other_ sword, the rusted sword, held in his hands. Recognition flashed across Luke's face.

"It was my father's," he said carefully.

"Indeed." A faint smile curled Vader's lips. The boy knew that much, at least. "And what do you know of your father?"

"He was a sailor," Luke replied, a wistfulness passing across his face. Vader wasn't sure what he was wistful about: his father, or sailing. Perhaps both. "A Jedi Knight. He helped people." His gaze hardened. "Until you and your Empire wiped the Jedi out."

"Correct." Vader tossed the sword aside—it was half-rusted, he had no use for it, and it was no good dwelling on the past, anyway. "They were a liability, an organisation bound to no particular state or government. Under the new order, in the new era of trade and travel, they had no place."

"They _helped_ people," Luke hissed. "They brought wealth and prosperity. That's more than your Empire can say."

"So you are planning on becoming a Jedi yourself?" The amusement in Vader's voice belied his anger at the mere thought. "Who will teach you?"

"The Jedi are dead. There are no heroes on the high seas anymore." The words sounded bitter on his tongue. "I intend to help people."

"And I suppose you think joining a mass of rebellious lowlifes and smugglers would do that?"

Luke pressed his lips together. "I do."

One might consider it tactless, telling the Supreme Commander of the Imperial Navy that he had every intention of becoming a Rebel. But Vader supposed Luke thought he was already in over his head. He might as well sink to the bottom of the pit.

"You don't think you could do good with the Empire?" If not, then Vader needed to fix that mindset, show the boy what the Empire could really do. Having Luke's loyalty, with all his powers, would make the Empire unstoppable.

"Not unless you consider ruthlessly murdering friends and families as _good_ , no."

 _Friends and families._

 _Friends_ , yes. _And families?_

Vader's reply stuck in his throat.

So. This wasn't just about Darklighter's death, wasn't just about chasing him halfway across the known world—this was about the _Lars_.

"They had what was coming to them," he growled, his anger uncoiling in his chest, "for kidnapping you and keeping you in the dark about your parents."

"I _know_ who my father was, and I _know_ who my mother is!"

Vader's breath caught at the second part, but he ploughed on.

"Somehow, _young one_ ," he snarled, "I _doubt that_."

Luke narrowed his eyes at him, and spat, "My father was a Jedi—"

"Part of the truth, but not the whole truth."

"—and I was _going_ to meet my mother before _you_ got involved!"

Vader's eyebrows rose, almost of their own volition. Now _that_ was interesting.

"Really? Then where is she?" Knowing Pad— _Amidala's_ location would go a long way towards eliminating her and her insignificant Rebellion for good—

Luke lifted his chin. "I'd rather die than tell you."

"That's not an option. And you still don't know the truth about your parents."

"I know _enough_!" Luke surged to his feet, until they were face to face with only the bars separating them.

" _Really_?" A feral grin stretched across Vader's mouth. Luke was so much shorter than him, but _brimming_ with rage; if he listened hard, he imagined he could hear the wind picking up. . .

"Really."

"Because I'm not convinced Owen Lars, my wonderful _step-brother_ ," Luke blanched at that, then again as the implications dawned on him, "would tell you about how you were born to a goddess given human form—the Goddess of the Sea, no less. _Especially_ considering his obvious efforts at keeping you away from the ocean. Had you ever even been on a ship before your stint aboard the _Millennium Falcon_?"

Luke didn't rise to the bait. He was still staring at Vader—taking in the blue eyes, the dimpled chin, the dark blond hair. "You— Goddess— Uncle Owen— _Step-brother_ —"

Vader reached through the bars to seize his chin. Luke tried to yank himself away, but his grip was firm. He turned his head, inspecting every inch of his son's face.

"Nor did he tell you," Vader hissed, "how you are _my_ son, _I_ am your father, and _I should have been the one to raise you_."

Luke was pale now—and shaking. His limbs were shaking, and so was his head, side to side, side to side. "No," he whispered. "No." He finally yanked himself out of Vader's grip and staggered back, collapsing onto his back. He stared up, taking in Vader's resemblance to him again—the blue eyes, the dimpled chin, the blond hair.

Blue eyes, dimpled chin, blond hair.

Blue eyes, dimpled chin, blond hair.

Luke's breathing was coming faster, faster and faster and faster. A strangled sob came spinning out of his throat; he pressed his hand to his mouth, bending over double—

"We're heading to Coruscant. I'll leave you to consider this in more detail, and return later," Vader said dispassionately—really, he was overreacting slightly—then paused as he turned to add, "my son."

Luke's sobs followed him until long after the door to the brig slammed shut behind him.


	10. Amidala

"Feel free to come down any time, Your Worship!" Han shouted. There was no response from the crows' nest, only the wind in the sails and Chewie's admonishment.

"Yeah, I know she misses the kid," Han snapped back at him. "We _all_ miss the kid. He was actually good _company_!" He shouted up at Leia again. "But that's why we're heading all the way out here. On the crazy hope that we'll find someone who'll help us save him." To be honest, Han didn't think there was much point. He didn't know why he was here, and he doubted he would stay for much longer. They were nearing Naboo now; as far as ferrying them there went, his role in this was nearly up.

But every time he thought about giving up, of ditching Her Highnessness and leaving Luke to his fate, something twisted in his gut. He remembered Luke, back in Mos Eisley, desperate and scared.

It had been weeks since they'd left Bespin. What was happening to the kid, captured by _Vader_?

What did he want with him?

There was still no response from Leia.

Han cursed, and stared out to sea. He shook his head hard. He had a job to do, damn it, this ship wasn't gonna run itself. They were a crew of three, minus Luke plus Her Worship, after all. He needed to stop _worrying_ about what she was angry about today, and—

Wait.

He squinted out to sea. Was that. . .?

"Chewie," he called out, voice urgent. "That ship look familiar to you?"

Chewie peered at it for a few pregnant moments. Then he roared his confirmation.

Han was right—it _was_ the same pirates who'd ambushed them in the Core; the ship's ragged black sails were hard to miss. But it wasn't alone. This time, it was accompanied by four more.

"Blast it," Han said, almost idly, then with more vigour. "Blast it, blast it, _blast it_. Toss me that spyglass." Chewie did; he extended it, focusing on the ship in the lead. "They're almost within cannon range."

Chewie asked—

"Yeah it's occurred to me to shoot back! But we need Her Highnessness down here for that, or we don't have enough spare hands!" He shut the spyglass with a snap, and tossed it back to him. "You plot us an alternate course to Naboo; I'll take the helm and get us the hell out of here. Hey! Princess!" he shouted up into the crows' nest. "Get down here now, we need you!"

"Oh really?" she remarked on her way down. "That's hardly a—"

"The pirates that attacked us before are inbound, I need you to man the cannon while Chewie and I get us outta here!"

She was good in a crisis, he'd give her that. She sharpened immediately, picking out the threat with a cool, calculating air and moving to meet it. "I'm on it."

There was a chirping above them; they both glanced up, to see a crimson starbird with a bold blue chest chittering down at them from the yards. As Han rolled his eyes, imagining what the kid would say, it took off, wheeling towards Naboo.

"Why don't we just follow the starbird," Leia remarked dryly. "She seems to know where she's going."

"I don't have time for this." Han took the steps up to the helm two at a time, muttering. "I don't have _time_ to—"

 _Bang._

Instinctively Han hit the deck; when he rolled back to his feet, he saw Leia and Chewie had done the same. None of them had been hit.

But the mizzenmast—the _biggest_ , most _important_ mast of the two—had. It splintered, teetering on the brink of collapse—

"We need to get out of here _now_."

 _Especially_ if those pirates were trying to incapacitate the _Falcon_ , not kill them all. Usually Han might settle for a surrender—hey, even he got boarded sometimes, and Imperials usually didn't beat you up too much if you didn't beat _them_ up too much—but they'd already humiliated these pirates once. He doubted they'd do them any decencies.

So he grabbed the helm and _heaved_. The entire ship rocked to starboard, but they needed to get away as soon as possible—

Another bang—another. One was from them, leaving a smoking hole in one of the pirates' side ships— _good shot, Your Highnessness_ —and the other—

The other careened into the mizzenmast again, which fractured completely. The whole structure went down hard, punching through to the decks below—no, Leia, Leia was down there—

"Leia!"

He leapt down the steps, scrambling towards the wreckage of what used to be a part of his ship. Leia had been manning the cannons below decks, she'd been right in the way of that—

"I'm alright, Captain," she snapped, glaring up at him through the hole. Something loosened in his chest. Her face was pale, hair sprinkled with splinters and sawdust, but she was alive. And so were he and Chewie. "Now, get us out of here and—" She cut herself off.

After a moment, Han heard it too.

A high-pitched whistling.

He glanced up. A high-pitched whistling, coming from a positive _storm_ of starbirds, their scarlet plumage flashing in the light and behind them—

Ships. A dozen or so.

Sailing, straight as an arrow, for the pirates.

And Han forgot about getting back to the helm, getting out of there, as he stood and stared and watched them open fire.

The pirate ships returned fire, but they were outnumbered three to one—almost as badly as they'd outnumbered the _Falcon_. And these new ships _battered_ them into _pieces_ , until their sails and masts were threads and splinters, their cannons cold.

By the time the newcomers actually boarded the pirate ships, there was very little resistance left.

There did appear to still be _some_ resistance, but Han stopped caring because one of the ships was approaching the _Falcon_ now. He had the urge to run, get out of there—in the worst case scenario, this was just another threat for them to deal with—until his eyes caught on the flag being hoisted to the top of the mainmast.

A red, stylised starbird on a blue background.

That was when he started to suspect.

And then the ship drew up alongside the _Falcon_ , a plank thrown between them so a woman with Leia's colouring and Luke's smile could board, and he knew who this was.

Her posture was perfect, her brown hair pulled into a bun so ruthless not a single hair escaped. It just exacerbated her resemblance to Leia, clambering up onto the deck to see what was going on.

The starbird from earlier, with the blue chest, swooped in the settle on her shoulder. Leia's eyes blew wide.

But it was Han who drawled, "Padmé Naberrie, I presume?"

* * *

"You presume correctly, Captain," Padmé Naberrie— _her mother_ —said, before turning her attention on her. Her brown eyes—like hers!—roved over her hungrily before she greeted, in a voice soft with reverence, "Leia."

"Mother." The title tasted odd on her tongue. She'd never had the need to use it before.

"Leia," Padmé said again, taking a step forward. She'd barely blinked. "Leia." The name was like a chant.

A sob ripped itself out of Leia's chest, and she flung herself forward.

Padmé caught her easily, though they were about the same size, and then a bird was taking flight and there were arms around her and she was hugging her. _Hugging_ her. Her mother, whom she'd never met, a figure who only existed in ink and paper and childish imaginings, was _hugging her_ —

She squeezed her so hard she thought they'd both suffocate. She wouldn't mind. She'd met her mother, was _hugging_ her mother; the world could go to hell for all she cared and _she would die happy_. She'd met her mother, and she'd met Luke—

Luke.

The thought sobered her, dried her tears. She may have met their mother, but Luke hadn't. The world couldn't go to hell just yet.

So she pulled back from the hug, though she couldn't quite bring herself to let go of her mother's hands. When Padmé met her eye, she knew that she understood.

"I heard about Alderaan," Padmé whispered. "Bail, Breha. . . And," she took a deep breath, "I heard about Luke."

Leia hugged her again, if only to disguise the fact that suddenly she couldn't make herself stand on her own. Burying her face in her mother's shoulder, she just whispered, "Why?"

Padmé held her gently and said, equally gently, "This is why it was always going to be dangerous to meet as a family."

 _Dangerous_. That word had been a staple in the letters, the excuses for why they weren't together, why they weren't _happy_. Leia had loved her aunt and uncle, just as Luke had loved his, but _it wasn't the same_. She wanted _her_ family.

"Why?" she choked out again.

Padmé drew back. "That's a complicated question," she said, her voice warbling, "with a complicated answer. And you deserve to know it in full—you _will_ know it in full—but I can't tell it to you here. Or now." She glanced at Han over Leia shoulder; Leia was suddenly very aware that he had been standing there awkwardly the whole time. "We'll take you back to base and explain it there?" The question was directed at Han, but her hand tightened around Leia's.

Han cast a rueful glance at the _Falcon_ 's general state of disrepair. "Yeah," he said. "That'll work."

But, still—

Leia asked, " _How_?"

"How did I know you were in trouble?" Padmé quirked an eyebrow, then nodded at the starbird still wheeling above them, like some sort of sentry. "Sabé told me."

Leia glanced up at the blue-chested bird which had been with them for so much of the journey. The question was on the tip of her tongue, but she shook her head.

There was a lot she still needed to understand.

* * *

For a good few days—weeks, nearly—Luke drifted in and out of consciousness.

The first time he'd slept, he'd slept like the dead for hours, and woken with a sour taste in his mouth. Bandages were wrapped round his head, arms and torso—no matter how minor the injuries were, they were wrapped up and treated.

And there was a blanket tucked round his shoulders, a pillow under his head.

A part of him wondered whether this was Vader's attempt at a mercy, but he spent more time worrying about the fact that apparently he'd had a medic check over him without waking up. How deeply had he slept?

He decided that the food was probably drugged.

He only picked at the meals after that, no matter how his stomach growled. With the barest dregs of the drug ingested and the general lethargy of being kept in dim lighting all day, he floated in some sort of delirium. Eyes half-open, mind half-asleep. It was the only sleep he got.

The only sleep he got, because every time he fell asleep completely he saw a flash of silver, heard Biggs's scream, watched Vader's lips form the words _my son_ —

He jerked awake quickly, every time.

So it was in one of those transcendent states of near sleep that he heard the singing.

He _felt_ it more than heard it—the Imperial sailors were stamping on the decks above, and it vibrated through his teeth, his bones. There wasn't much by way of a melody, but the rhythm of the thumping was familiar. It took him a moment to place it.

When he finally did, it felt like he'd been punched.

 _What will we do with a drunken sailor?_

 _What will we do with a drunken sailor?_

 _What will we do with a drunken sailor?_

 _Early in the morning!_

He closed his eyes. If he listened to the thumping, and ignored the timbre of the voices, he could superimpose more beloved ones on top of it all. Han had taught him and Leia this song shortly before the fiasco on Bespin.

"Way hay and up she rises," Luke murmured. "Way hay and up she rises."

 _Way hay and up she rises_

 _Early in the morning!_

Leia had tried to turn her nose up at it, for austerity's sake, but she'd ended up laughing and joining in. He'd taken her hand and they'd spun across the deck. Han had actually, genuinely smiled as they yanked him and Chewie in to make a circle, and Luke's heart warmed at the memory.

 _That's what we do with a drunken sailor_

 _That's what we do with a drunken sailor_

 _That's what we do with a drunken sailor_

 _Early in the morning!_

Han had finished with a bellow, he remembered, and looked extremely. . . cheerful. . . for hours afterwards. Luke wondered if he'd ever see that level of happiness on his face again.

He wondered if he'd ever see _Han_ again.

The warmth fled.

* * *

A woman was standing outside Luke's cell.

Barely awake, Luke cracked his eyes open to study her. The light from the tiny porthole overhead bounced off the bars of the cells opposite to land on dark skin; pale, geometric tattoos; white hair hanging in three plaits. Two of the plaits were draped across the front of her shoulders; he followed them down to the twin short swords sheathed at her belt, their hilts worn with use.

In her hands she carried a pitcher of water.

"What do you want," he croaked out, obstinately _not_ looking at the water, even as his parched throat burned with the effort of speech.

"Just to talk to you," she said in a tone that couldn't quite be described as _coy_ , but he didn't know what the word for it was. It was coyness without the amusement; instead, there was a sharp-edged tension, a gravitas dragging the corners of her lips down into a frown.

Once again, he forcibly scraped words out of his throat. "Why."

"Because," she said simply, settling down into a cross-legged position on the floor. There she sat, directly opposite him now, a mere few feet away, rusted bars between them. "You're my Master's son." She manoeuvred the pitcher between the bars to push it towards him. "Drink. It'll help your throat."

He wanted to refuse. He _should_ refuse, on principle, if only because this was Vader's ship, Vader's water, and he wouldn't accept anything the man— _his father_ —tried to give him. And if getting to him through this gentler woman, who _just wanted to talk_ , was his new plan. . .

. . .then it was working.

It was working, because. . . Luke was thirsty. Luke was thirsty, and tired, and had spent an unspecified amount of time alone. Vader and the sailors put on rotation to guard the cells didn't count; they were nothing but hostile. There were no other prisoners; few survived this long, anyway, other than him.

He needed company— _kind_ company. And this woman was offering it.

So he drank the water. And when he spoke, he began with, "I thought it was supposed to be bad luck to bring women onto a ship."

The woman raised an eyebrow at that; her tattoos shifted with the movement. "Something tells you don't really believe that."

"No," he admitted, "but most Imperials do." It was why they rarely hired women as sailors. In fact, his aunt had told him that his grandmother had wanted to sail only to be turned down by the Coruscanti Navy; even before there was any Empire, the ideas held their ground.

But his aunt had also said that his _father_ had been in the Coruscanti Navy, and while that was clearly _true_ , it was still—

He didn't want to think about this.

The woman inclined her head to concede the point, and didn't say anything else.

The silence stretched on. Luke, desperate to talk to anyone who would listen, kept talking. "Did you say—" He swallowed. "I was your _Master's_ son?"

"Yes."

"And. . . by _Master_. . ."

"No!" She seemed horrified by the implication. "No. Anakin may be a cruel man, but he is not a slaver. He _was_ a slave—I'd assume you know this. The entire Empire stands against slavery."

Luke breathed a sigh of relief. But. . . "Anakin?"

"Anakin Skywalker," she said, a sad smile on her lips, "your father?"

"I'd hoped. . ." _That he was lying. That Vader isn't Anakin._ "I was told my father was killed by pirates."

She shrugged, though there was nothing casual about it. "Well, I'm afraid that's not true. Your father _is_ Vader, whether or not you like it."

"What did you mean by 'Master', then?" The question burst out before he could stop it. Even if he knew it wasn't associated with slavery, the word left a bad taste in his mouth.

She tilted her head; her plaits shifted across her front. "I was his Padawan, back when he was a Jedi. He was my teacher—my Master."

"Padawan?" There was so much here he didn't understand—so much he didn't _know_. "You were a Jedi?" A thought hit him. "What's your name, even?"

The question caught her off guard. "Oh—of course." She gave a small smile, and bowed her head a little. "I'm Ahsoka Tano, your father's Padawan learner." She gave him a moment to process that, then asked, "What do you know about the Jedi, Luke?"

He nearly flinched at someone calling him by his given name—only Vader had done that recently, and _that_ didn't exactly make him happy—but answered, "I know there are legends about them. That they served the goddess Amidala," and again, he tried not to think too much about the implications of his birth in that, "and sailed the seas, not bound to any state, unofficially carrying out justice wherever they went. They ferried traders across the fastest, most dangerous routes and helped them bring wealth back to their homelands. They dealt with all manners of beasts from legends. They had a moral code and stuck to it; in many places, they were so respected that the mere _idea_ of impersonating a Jedi was considered the highest of all crimes."

"That's all true," Ahsoka admitted, "but what do you know about their _flaws_?"

Luke didn't say anything. He took another drink of water instead.

Ahsoka sighed. "They served Amidala. A lot of nations didn't like how unpredictable the will of a goddess could be, _especially_ when it was a goddess they didn't even believe in. Though technically they were protected under the law of the Republic—" She paused. "The Republic was—"

"A trade alliance between most of the lands in the continent, I know."

 _Rude_. He chastised himself for interrupting— _Amidala_ , he sounded like Aunt Beru—but Ahsoka didn't seem to mind.

"Yes." She smiled slightly. "The Republic was discovering new lands every day, sailing through the dangerous waters where Amidala's monsters lived. They _needed_ the Jedi, for their sailing skills, their ability to calm the creatures and fight them off when necessary. They even needed their _diplomacy_ when they made contact with new civilisations. But. . ."

She grimaced. "But the Jedi still drew a lot of criticism, and from a _lot_ of places. When they fell under attack, few could be stirred to defend them.

"And then they _did_ fall under attack, and well. . . I'm sure Imperial history covered what happened next."

"They were wiped out. Palpatine started taking over other countries through the Republic's trade laws and his stranglehold on trade routes. He kept control through the military. The Empire grew larger."

"Yeah."

Luke sighed. "What's your point, Ahsoka?"

"The Jedi weren't perfect. When your father talks to you about it all, and you inevitably argue with him, I want you to keep that in mind."

"And what about you?" Luke challenged. "Do you still consider yourself a Jedi?"

Ahsoka's hands fluttered down to rest on the pommels of her short swords. As she checked no one was near enough to listen, the blades flashed in the light—for the first time, Luke noticed that now-familiar symbol stamped onto them. The symbol of the Jedi Order.

"Do I still follow their morals, of serving the greater society before serving yourself? Do I still serve Amidala?" The look she gave him was weighted with something. "Yes. Purely and simply: Yes."

"Then why do you stay?"

She swallowed, and admitted, "Because I believe there's still good in him. There has to be."

She seemed to come to her senses, then, and rose to her feet in one, fluid motion. "Your father will have finished his work in an hour. After that, he'll have you summoned to his quarters. He wants to talk to you. Just. . . keep what I've said in mind."

She was almost out of sight when he said, "Wait."

She paused.

"The Jedi weren't flawless," Luke said slowly, " _obviously_. They fell. But the prosperity they brought, the peace. . . They were needed." He shook his head. "They were heroes. Today, there are no heroes on the high seas. They're gone, and we. . ." He swallowed, trying not to think of Old Ben. Of how he'd looked when he calmed that sea monster. Of the muted passion he'd always seemed to feel towards keeping Luke safe. "And now we need them more than ever."

Ahsoka was quiet for a moment.

"Perhaps," she admitted, then let the door swing shut behind her.

* * *

Ahsoka had been right: Vader did come for him a short while later.

There remained little to do in his cell except sleep, so that was what he did. It meant that when heavy footsteps alerted him to Vader's approach, once again he found himself with his eyes half-open, peering up at someone on the outside of his cell, even as they peered down and in—just as it had been with Ahsoka.

But Ahsoka and Vader were two very different people.

And Ahsoka had never _towered_ in quite the way Vader did, nor was her shadow anywhere near as long. From the moment his footsteps stopped, and Luke knew he was standing in front of him, his presence was _stifling_ —almost supernatural.

"What do you want," he said, just as he'd said to Ahsoka, only his throat wasn't dry anymore. He hadn't quite finished the pitcher of water yet; it was nestled in the crook of his elbow, lest the rocking of the ship send it flying.

Vader watched him for a moment, blue eyes curiously alight as he took him in. Then his right hand—metal, Luke observed with some surprise; how did he manage to move it?—twisted a key in the lock and the door creaked open.

"Come with me," his father said.

Luke eyed the door, making no move to get up. "What's to stop me from—"

"We are on a ship, in the middle of the sea, boy. Any lifeboat that's launched, should it somehow outrun the _Devastator_ , would take at least three days to reach the nearest landmass. Limited freshwater provisions, under the hot sun the entire time? You were a resident of Tatooine; you know the effects. Your own will to live is what's stopping you. Now, _my son_ ," he held out his left hand—his flesh hand. "Come."

Reluctantly, Luke pushed himself to his feet and made to take the hand. Vader seized his wrist before he could, and yanked him the rest of the way out.

"I'm escorting you to my quarters. Don't test me by trying to escape," he warned.

Luke gritted his teeth. "We're on the way to Coruscant, right?" Coruscant was one small island among many; if he timed it right, and managed to escape while they were near one. . .

Vader's hand tightened on his arm, like he could sense his thoughts. "Yes. We have been due back there for weeks."

"Then why aren't you?"

"I was sure that whatever the Emperor wanted to talk to me about, it could wait until I had secured _you_."

Luke grimaced slightly at that, even as he began to climb the steps and squint at the sudden influx of light. They passed the saloon and deckhouse on the way up; he was hyperaware of sailors' gazes on him, which lingered even after he'd passed on.

They reached Vader's quarters soon enough; even the infamously massive _Devastator_ really didn't have much space aboard it for living quarters. That said, Vader's were surprisingly large—larger than the deckhouse they'd just passed, and certainly Luke's cell. He took a moment to look around, but the space was ruthlessly practical. The papers on the desk were put away, the clothes all stored in a trunk, the sheets on the bed folded there. The only memento Vader seemed to have was the japor snippet round his throat—the one he was fiddling with, almost nervously, as he watched Luke.

Luke's gaze flicked from the necklace to the metal hand clutching it, wondering. . . "How does your hand work?"

"Magic." Vader said it as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

Luke huffed a breath. "Seriously?"

"I do not joke, young one," Vader said. "It works with magic. The magic of the sea."

"My name is Luke," he snapped, "use it, or don't talk to me at all. Preferably the latter." Before Vader could react to that, he barrelled on, "What do you _mean_ magic?"

Vader stilled. "I mean that when my organic hand was cut off by a pirates, your mother enchanted the metal one I built so it worked just the same."

Luke closed his eyes. "My mother."

"Yes. Amidala, the Goddess of the Sea."

"What—" He shook his head, not sure whether to laugh or cringe. " _How_?"

"I was a Jedi." Vader's voice had suddenly gone hard. "My job was to serve her, to serve the sea. I just happened to love her as well—and she loved me back. She made herself a woman, Padmé Naberrie, and we lived together happily for many years." It sounded so _sensible_ the way he said it, _did he not realise_ — "Your mother was a goddess, Luke."

He was quiet for a moment, mulling it over, then asked, "Then why aren't you happy now?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why aren't you happy _now_ , Father?" The title slipped out, unintended; he barrelled on before either of them could latch onto it. "You said you lived together happily. What happened?"

"She became pregnant." Luke went cold. "She found it difficult to remain human while in the process of creation—she was slipping away from me. I was always worried she would never come back.

"My friend, Palpatine, taught me how to bind her godly essence in a talisman so she could stay with me forever. I did."

Luke couldn't breathe. He could see where this was going. "And how did she react?"

"She betrayed me." The words were a growl. "She had little to no magic anymore—it was all in the talisman—she couldn't stop me, but she told the rest of the Jedi. Turned them against me—Kenobi tried to _kill_ me—" Luke took a quick step back as Vader thumped his hand against his wooden leg. "—and left me missing another limb. And when the Jedi were all dead, she ran off with you."

He swallowed harshly. He wasn't looking at Luke anymore—he was staring out of the porthole, into the sky, the storm now brewing there.

"Palpatine. . . he gave me a place in his growing Empire, a means to hunt her—and _you_ —down. I wanted her back, and if she refused, if she betrayed me again. . . I still wanted _you_.

"But she had vanished. I heard nothing until the rumour that. . ." He trailed off, moving his gaze back onto Luke. It roved across his face as he said, "That the child had died. She lived, but our baby had died. It was a child of the sea; without that magic, without _Padmé's_ magic, it couldn't survive. I thought. . ."

And then it clicked. "You thought that you had killed me."

"Yes." The word was an exhale. He reached out slightly to touch Luke's face. "So when I heard your name. . ."

"You decided torturing and murdering my best friend was an acceptable way to get to me." Luke shook his head, taking another step back. Vader's hand dropped to his side. " _Why_?"

"You are my son," Vader said, and the words _meant_ something then, made his heart stutter in a way they hadn't before. His father wanted him—

And then he ruined it with, "You are also Amidala's son. You will be a great asset to the Empire."

All the breath left Luke at once.

He shook his head. "I _hate_ the Empire. It's overly harsh on its people, oppresses those from the outer territories, maintains control through brutal acts of force. . . _Alderaan_ ," he whispered, thinking of Leia, then— _worse_ —thinking of how she would react knowing the man responsible was her father. "It's not _right_."

"It decimated slavery throughout the continent."

Luke paused. Anakin and Shmi Skywalker had been slaves—he knew that. He wondered how much his uncle's story matched up with the truth.

"I know," he said, "and I am _glad_. But one good thing isn't enough to make up for a lifetime of bad things. It's not enough for redemption."

Vader was quiet. He didn't respond—perhaps he couldn't respond. Did he _know_ how terrible the Empire could be? What it did to its subjects? How undeniably _evil_ it was?

He had to—he was _Darth Vader_.

But didn't that just make the fact he still fought for them _worse_?

"The Empire is not evil," Vader said after a moment. "I cannot tell you why. But I will endeavour to show you."

Luke sighed again. "Father. . ." He closed his eyes. "What do you want? What's the point of this talk?"

"You're my son," he said. "I want to know you." He gestured to a chair, and after Luke sat down in it he took a seat as well. "Tell me about yourself."

Luke took a deep breath, trying to clear his head. Later—they could continue this argument later.

So instead he said, "What do you want to know?"

* * *

When Luke got back to his cell, the pitcher of water had been knocked over in the rocking of the ship, the water all seeping away. He went to sleep discontented, bothered by his conversation with his father.

When he woke up, the pitcher was full again.

* * *

The convor shook its wings as it hopped onto Ahsoka's shoulder; she suppressed a smile. Morai wasn't anything like the comm hawks the Imperials usually used to deliver messages, but that made sense. After all, it wasn't an Imperial message she was sending.

"Here," she said, holding out her arm. The convor jumped onto it, and she tied the note to her leg. It was short, negligible in weight—it was barely a hindrance as Morai shook out her wings, and launched herself into the night.

Ahsoka watched her grow ever smaller with a wistful smile, until she was just another speck of white among the stars. Then she turned away.

The message was sent; her plan was set into motion.

She only hoped Padmé would be able to follow it through.


	11. Rebellion

"Welcome to Naboo," her mother said.

Leia let go of her hand for the first time in the whole of the voyage to step up to the prow of the ship, and gape.

Everyone knew that Naboo was what all the fairytales were based on, the landscape as idyllic as any island on this mortal plain could get. It was the one meant to most resemble the land of the gods—perhaps that was why Padmé had settled here, after all.

Leia cast her mother a glance through her eyelashes. She still barely believed the crazy things she'd been told on the way here, but. . . it made sense. In some strange, convoluted way, it made sense.

They sailed round the back of the island and quite a way up the river before they stopped—there were no Imperial outposts on Naboo, but one couldn't be too careful. It was clear from the moment they started gliding upriver that this base was incredibly established—or, perhaps, it had been built up from the fairytale civilisation that used to live here. There was various huts and jetties, other manmade structures, all along the river banks. After about an hour, the river widened into a lake, and Leia gaped at the array of warships sheltered there.

"Is this. . ."

"The entire Rebel fleet," Padmé confirmed. "We've been hiding here for nearly a year now; we'll need to move on soon, or at least establish another base in case the Imperials find us." There was something akin to sadness in her voice at the idea of leaving somewhere that felt so much like home. "Here—there's the dock we're going to use."

The dock she led the _Falcon_ to was smaller than the others—it was the smallest ship in the convoy, after all. Leia near leapt down the gangplank, staring around at everything.

Naboo was warmer, more humid than Alderaan, but nevertheless, all the green. . . It felt like home.

There was a loud barking, and she whirled to see where it was coming from. The feeling of walking on solid ground again jarred her feet, but a few steps forward and she saw the black and silver blur barrelling towards them, a yellow dot not far behind. It wasn't until they'd nearly reached her that she made out what they were: an elderly dog, black hair mostly turned silver, and a yellow parrot.

"Mistress Padmé!" the parrot said. "Mistress Padmé!"

"Hello, Threepio." Padmé smiled as the dog reached her, bounding around her heels with an excitement that belied its old age. "And hello, Artoo. You know I've only been gone a day or so."

"Artoo is a menace!" Threepio wailed in that same staccato voice. "A menace!"

Somehow, Leia figured that meant _Artoo was getting in trouble and being reckless and I was wishing you were around to stop him_.

Padmé seemed to take it as that as well. "I'm sure whatever it was, it was harmless," she soothed, scratching Artoo behind the ear.

Threepio had settled on one of the jetty posts. "Mistress Padmé!"

Artoo's curiosity overwhelmed his affection for Padmé then, and he bounded up to Leia, tail wagging furiously. He head-butted her hand.

"Uh," she said, "hi."

He head-butted her again. She rubbed his back, gently.

His tail wagged harder.

"He likes you," Padmé observed.

"Well, that's great for you." Leia gave Han a look; he held his hands up. "Hey, don't get excited! I just wanna know what's going on. They're being all secretive, and the _Falcon_ needs fixing."

"Not to worry, Captain Solo, we'll get your ship back into good shape." Padmé turned to look him in the eye; despite the fact she was shorter than him, something about her demeanour—or maybe the fact she was an actual _goddess_ —made him cower back. She ran a disapproving eye over the ship. "Perhaps even better than before."

"Hey—"

"And?" Leia asked.

Padmé didn't insult her intelligence by asking her to elaborate. She just smiled, and led Leia by the arm along the jetty. "And while my people are working on that, we'll go inside and discuss everything." She squeezed her arm gently. "And I mean _everything_ , Leia. Any questions you ask, I'll answer. You deserve to know."

"And Luke?"

A wind whispered past them at the word, ruffling Padmé's clothes, the locks of hair that sprouted from Leia's plaits. Padmé closed her eyes in what seemed like pain.

"Sabé sent word about your situation," she said. "I have another agent who's sending word about _Luke's_ situation. They plan to spring him out tonight, and bring him here as soon as possible. We _will_ save him."

"Will he be alright?"

"Yes—he won't be hurt during the extraction."

"How do you know he ain't already?"

It was Han, trailing behind them, who asked the question. Threepio cawed something, offended at his rough tone, but there was real worry in the question so Padmé didn't mention it.

"How do you know Vader didn't just kill him straight off the bat?"

Leia felt ill at the idea of that—she glanced at Padmé for reassurances, to see her mother shaking her head.

"Luke is fine," she insisted. "Vader won't hurt him."

Leia wasn't quite satisfied with that. "How can you be sure?"

Padmé glanced from Han to Leia, then round the area. There didn't seem to be anyone within earshot.

"Because," she said, voice lowered anyway. "You and Luke. . . you're Vader's children."

* * *

It was the middle of the night when Luke was jerked awake by the squeal of the hinges on the door to the brig. He kept his eyes closed, his breathing light, but strained his ears to listen for footsteps.

There were none. Even the person's breathing was as quiet as the night.

So he couldn't quite contain his shock when, directly in front of his cell, someone whispered, "Luke."

His eyes flew open. Crouching in front of him, white hair and tattoos luminous in the moonlight, was Ahsoka.

The keys to his cell dangled from her right hand.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, glancing from the key, to her face, to the floors above where he _really hoped_ Vader was asleep.

She inserted the key into the lock and turned. The mechanism grated uncomfortably loudly, but it was over quickly as the door clanged open—he winced at the noise, _again_ —and she was beckoning to him.

"Busting you out," was all she said, holding out a sword he recognised as the one he'd bought on Alderaan. That was all he needed.

He was on his feet and out of there in an instant.

When he accepted it, the sword felt familiar at his hip.

"But _why_?" he asked as they crept along, albeit in a whisper. "You're—"

"I'm a Jedi. I am loyal to Amidala, Goddess of the Sea," Ahsoka replied, glancing in each direction as they exited the brig and began to climb the steps up to the deck. "And your mother and sister want you with them."

He breathed a sigh. "Leia made it?"

"She did. Her and those smugglers."

" _Han_ stuck around? _Really_?"

"Quiet," she warned. Luke realised why a moment later—they were passing the captain's quarters, then Vader's. Just a little bit further to go, and they'd be at the lifeboats. It was a miracle they hadn't been spotted.

"I drugged everyone on duty tonight," Ahsoka explained, as if she'd heard his thoughts.

"Then aren't we _floating in the middle of the sea_?"

"Not in the middle of the sea. We're nearing Corellia now; it should be a half a day's drift in a lifeboat, then we'd land there. Then we can start heading to the Rebellion."

"But if we're that close to Corellia, then isn't there a risk of the _Devastator_ drifting too close to other ships while there's no one to steer her?" They were out on the deck now, nearing where one of the larger lifeboats was stored. "Or of pirate attacks?"

"Luke," Ahsoka said, voice pained, "you need to focus on getting out of here. Worry about those things later."

"I would think such things are pertinent _now_."

Luke froze, automatically gripping the pommel of his sword all the tighter. Then they turned.

In the dim light of the moon and stars, the lanterns all but guttered out, Vader cast a far longer shadow than he should. Luke had a sudden, violent sense of déjà vu to that fight on Bespin.

Vader, limned in firelight. Vader, limned in moonlight.

Vader, the most terrifying thing he could imagine.

Ahsoka had already yanked the short swords from her waist, bringing them up in a defence position and snarling, "Stay back, _Vader_." Both Luke and Vader jolted at that—she always, _always_ called him _Anakin_. "We are _leaving_."

Vader's sword was already in his hand, the moonlight running down the blade like liquid. But he made no move to attack.

When he spoke, his voice was frozen with rage.

"I have no time," he said, "to waste on listening to _traitors_."

Ahsoka flinched at the word—it was that moment of weakness Vader used. Luke felt something inside him tug as a stray wind barrelled towards Ahsoka, slamming her against the mainmast with a _crack_.

"Ahsoka!" He was at her side in an instant. She was out cold.

Luke glanced at the japor snippet around Vader's throat, and drew his sword.

Vader said, "You were going to leave."

The wind picked up a little again, blowing the hair back from his face.

"Yes," Luke said through gritted teeth, "I _was_. I am a prisoner here. Why wouldn't I try to leave?"

The wind continued to pick up, but Vader's face stood impassive, growing harder and harder with every passing second.

"You have me prisoner," Luke said. "I'm left to rot in a cell, separated from my friends and family—"

" _I_ am your family!"

Vader's words boomed. His sword was trembling. His sword was trembling because his arm was trembling, because _he_ was trembling, rage incandescent in every muscle.

Luke was trembling too.

"You chased me across the sea," he said. "You threw me in a cell, you killed my aunt and uncle, _you_ _killed my best friend_. Family or not, why would I stay?" The wind was roaring, now. "I _hate you_."

Something snapped.

Vader let out a roar of his own and lunged. Luke swiftly brought up his sword to parry as the blade came crashing down, like a hammer on a burning rod, like lightning on a torn sea—

And there was something inside him, something _electric_ , like the wind and the rage and that same lightning—

He swung at Vader himself, a viciousness springing to mind and he fought like he'd never fought before, _hated_ like he'd never hated before, because this man was at fault for _everything_ , this man had ripped him from his life of safety and boredom and thrown him into this world of terror and he—

He hated him.

That lightning was a storm in his chest, thunder in his lungs; it ripped out of him, sizzling. Vader was thrown back, just like he'd thrown back Ahsoka, someone who'd just wanted to _help him_ , someone who'd been _kind to him_. He raced after Vader until he stood over him, raising his sword above his head to strike the final, killing blow, the final killing blow against the man who—

Against the man who was his father.

Luke took several heavy breaths. There was cool rain on his face—where had this thunderstorm come from?—and Vader had raised a hand to shield his eyes from the droplets, peering up at him.

He could do it.

He could swing down, kill the man who'd done all of this, killed his friend, killed his _family_.

He could kill him.

But Luke watched the rain wet his father's dark blond hair. It was blinked out of blue eyes. It trickled into the cleft in his chin.

He could see himself in his father.

His _father_.

And he could see Leia, too. She was there, in the rigidity of his spine, the borderline arrogance with which he held himself still, the shape of the nose.

This was Anakin Skywalker. This was Darth Vader.

This was their father.

Cowering on the ground, helpless before a flash of steel ready to end his life.

Luke had to wonder whether Ben had died the same way.

The seconds ticked by. His arms were starting to ache. He could hear the shouts of sailors waking in the lower decks. The moment was starting to pass.

Could he kill his father? Could he really?

His arms sagged to his side, the weapon falling from his grip. He sank to his knees.

No.

No he couldn't.

The thunder and lightning had stopped, but the rain didn't cease. It soaked the clothes on his back, dampened his hair into clumps, ran in rivulets along his jawline, like ersatz tears.

His father's hand dropped from his face, and for the first time Luke could see that he was smiling.

A blast of cold wind hit him in the chest. He skidded backwards, across the floor. His head throbbed.

Vader picked up his sword.

"I had thought you would have learned from your friend's demise," he said coolly, running a finger along the edge of his blade, "exactly what the consequences of defying me are."

Luke pushed himself onto his elbows, shoving damp hair out of his face.

"Alas, it seems I have to teach you again."

Ahsoka was just beginning to stir. Luke saw that, and saw what Vader was about to do. He jerked upright. "No!"

But he was too far away, too slow, too woozy, to get there in time. Vader strode up to Ahsoka. She did her best to meet his gaze defiantly, despite the blood matting her hair.

"You swore you wouldn't leave me," he told her. "Not this time."

She winced, and closed her eyes.

"I have no patience for traitors."

Luke's _"No!"_ died in his throat as Vader's sword came down.

But it didn't connect.

He paused just above her neck, his face screwed up in. . . conflict? His lips were pressed tightly together, his brows harshly furrowed. . . but before Luke's astounded eyes, a tear slid down his cheek.

Ahsoka smiled—almost _hopefully_ —as he tossed his sword to the side.

There were sailors waking up now. They pounded up the stairs, broke out onto the deck. Several made a beeline for Luke. He was yanked to his feet, the rough bite of a rope dug into his wrists, but he kept his eyes on the two of them, locked in one moment, staring at each other.

"My lord?" the captain said. Luke turned his head to see him, pinched face lined with stress. "What are your orders?"

Vader didn't look away from Ahsoka. "Take them to the brig," he ordered, "and—"

"No."

Vader paused. "What?"

"No," Ahsoka repeated. "I won't come back with you."

She closed her eyes.

And even Vader took a startled step back when a starbird took flight from where her body had been moments before.


	12. Power and Conflict

"So," Han rolled the word around his mouth, as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with it, "Vader's kids, huh?"

"Shut up." The quarters Padmé had given them in the Rebellion's base—a secluded manor—were very nice. Leia hadn't stopped pacing them, but she could at least appreciate that.

She raised a hand to rub her temple. "Just. . . shut up."

"Y'know, it does explain a _lot_ , actually. Did that lady say your old man's name was Skywalker? That'd explain why he would've been obsessed with Luke, not you. He probably didn't know about you."

" _That lady_ is my mother, thank you very much, and yes, she did. And yes, I figured. I'd rather not think about it."

"Well, tough luck, sweetheart," Han smirked, stretching over the ratty sofa in the quarters they'd been given with an air of smugness. "'Cause wasn't it you who demanded you be told _everything_ as _soon as possible_? _Of course_ your Ma had stuff to do, but she'll be back any minute, and then _thinking about it_ won't be optional."

Leia glared at him. "You're not helping."

"I ain't trying to."

She scoffed and went back to pacing.

"It's just. . ." She sighed. "Vader razed Alderaan."

Han sat up at her tone, looking concerned.

"He razed Alderaan to the ground, and felt no remorse while doing it." Leia stared at the carpet—a faded red, with fleur-de-lis patterned in gold. "He's a monster." She shook her head. "How can I be his— his daughter?"

A pause. Then Han said, with a wry smile, "Well, I mean, I'd have thought your aunt and uncle would have told you how, but you can ask your Ma if you really—"

"Shut up." But Leia laughed a little. She had a tendency to take things too seriously, her aunt and uncle had always told her—Han stubbornly _not_ taking all of this seriously. . . helped, somewhat. "Just shut up."

"You're smiling."

"I most certainly am not."

"Yeah you are." He sat back against the sofa again, folding his arms behind his head. "My work here is done."

"Oh, go—"

She was cut off by the door opening, and Padmé ducked her head in. Her gaze fell with some amusement on Han's smug smile, Leia's contained smirk, but even that amusement couldn't quite chase away the melancholy look on her face.

Leia saw that look, and something inside her went cold.

"Luke?" she asked.

Padmé pinched her lips together. "My agent just reported back," she admitted. There was a chirping at the window; Leia turned to see a red starbird, who was _not_ Sabé, hop onto the windowsill. It had a pattern of white feathers on its head. "The escape attempt failed. Luke is still a prisoner."

Leia made a noise that was half-sob, half-sigh. Han just grimaced, but Leia noticed a new tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there before.

"What happened to the agent?" he asked.

Padmé glanced at the bird, and lifted her arm. It fluttered to land on it. "She chose to die," she said, gesturing with her other hand, "and be reborn."

"Uh huh." Han's tone was sceptical.

"Handmaidens live twice," Padmé told him. "Like ghosts. And they can choose when to make the transition."

Han just shook his head. "Sorry, Your Ladyship, but I ain't falling for any of this mumbo jumbo."

"Then how do you explain the fact that you managed to outrun Vader so easily?" she asked. "The winds always favour him—but you had my children on board. You had wind filling your sails the whole way. Have you ever experienced something like that before?"

"No," Han admitted, wrinkling his nose, "but that ain't proof!"

Padmé just rolled her eyes. "If you won't look at the evidence in front of you, I won't—"

"And _speaking_ of my sails," Han interrupted, "what're you doing with my ship? I don't like other people messing with her."

"You let Lando's people mess with her," Leia pointed out.

"No, I didn't!"

"Anyway," Padmé said loudly, "Captain Solo, Chewbacca is currently supervising the repairs. Unless you mean to imply that you don't trust your first mate's judgement—"

"Don't you turn this into something against Chewie!"

"—I suggest we move on." Her gaze slid to Leia. "I promised to tell you everything about your father."

Leia swallowed.

Padmé nodded to the little table next to the window, covered in a white table cloth. "Shall we?"

Leia sat down, her mother following suit. Han eyed the third chair for a moment before deciding he preferred the sofa, and the starbird fluttered onto the seat instead.

"This," Padmé began, "is Ahsoka. She used to be Anakin's student, when he was a Jedi, and she's been spying on him for me for quite a few years now."

Ahsoka cawed. Leia tried to pretend she noticed nothing strange about this situation. "Hello."

"She tried to get Luke out." Padmé winced. "She failed."

Leia just shook her head—though whether it was in disappointment or a hopeless resolve, she wasn't sure.

"You said she was his student?" she prompted.

Padmé let out a breath. "Yes. Anakin was nine, and a slave, when the Jedi adopted him. He loved them like a second family, but he missed the mother he'd left behind, and that caused some rifts." She twined her fingers together. "He was given Ahsoka as a Padawan when he was nineteen, and she was fourteen."

She took a breath. "He was a Jedi—he was supposed to serve me, and the sea, and most Jedi do that out of love. But the way he loved was different, and. . . I loved him too.

"I became a human to be with him, and I became pregnant with you and Luke. But that was where it began to fall apart."

Leia's hand twitched—to fist or shake or punch something, she didn't know. Han cast her a worried look.

Padmé continued, "It's difficult to remain human while pregnant. I slipped back into a goddess often. It worried Anakin— _I_ didn't even know what being pregnant as a goddess would do to me, I'd never done it before, and he feared he would lose me. So he went behind my back and convinced Palpatine to give him a spell that would _keep_ me human, forever."

"The Emperor?" Han asked, despite himself. He had always seemed as human as anything, despite his arcane servant.

Padmé nodded gravely. "He's a dabbler in any number of magics that I have no jurisdiction over. By no means an expert, but good enough—I believe that his current illness, his deterioration, is caused by dealing in that which is not natural. But his spell worked. Anakin stole my godhood, and trapped it in the necklace he'd given me when we first met—a japor snippet."

She spread her hands. "And as you can see, I'm still human. I have but a fraction of the power I used to wield.

"I tried to get Anakin to break it—I'd lost an intrinsic part of my nature, and I wanted it back. I wasn't me without it. But he refused.

"I turned to the other Jedi. They'd never approved of my relationship with them, and I understand that. I was Amidala; they were my warriors— _handmaidens_ , to use an older word—and they would be long after they died. Showing favouritism was. . . bad taste.

"But Obi-Wan helped me.

"I asked him to find a way to break the spell. I never meant to say what had happened, or why I couldn't change back, but he. . . worked it out and told the other Jedi.

"They were apoplectic." She winced at the memory. "They thought Anakin a heretic. There was a fight—I couldn't do anything to stop it. Anakin lost his leg, on top of the hand he'd _already_ lost. But Palpatine was a high-ranking Coruscanti noble, and he sent soldiers to assist Anakin. The Jedi were wiped out."

"What about Ahsoka?" Leia asked, nodding at the bird.

"She'd already left Anakin when she heard what he had done—she went wandering for a few weeks, to come to terms with what she thought about her Order. Then she heard what had happened, and just. . . didn't go back. Not for a few years, until after she'd agreed to spy for me.

"By that point Anakin had changed his name to Vader, and had been appointed an officer in the Coruscanti Navy. With me and my Jedi gone from the seas, as well as the powers that necklace granted Vader, they conquered other lands with ease and created the Empire." There was something immeasurably sad in her voice as she said, "All I could do was hide."

"And when Luke and I were born," Leia said quietly, "we were separated."

"For your own protection. Bail and Breha were old friends of Obi-Wan's; Owen was Anakin's step-brother. I knew they'd protect you the way I couldn't. During those early years, adapting to being a human completely, my emotional state. . . I wasn't able to take care of two children. I could barely take care of myself."

Leia didn't say anything. It was an explanation, one that made sense, more than she'd ever received before—it was _a lot_ more than "dangerous".

But. . . it still hurt.

It still hurt that as much as she'd loved her aunt and uncle, she hadn't been with her family.

"Does Vader know?" she asked dully. If he'd known, and Alderaan had happened anyway. . .

"He knows I'm alive. He hates me. He knows Ahsoka was a spy. He hates her. He knows about Luke. He's. . . conflicted, about him. He _doesn't_ know about you."

Leia nodded. "Alright." She stared at the table, the cloth covering it. Burgundy fleur de lis were embroidered along the edges—like the pattern on the carpet.

Ahsoka chirped, then there was a hand on Leia's shoulder. "I'll leave you to digest it," Padmé said softly, then stood up. A flutter of wings, a few footsteps and a swing of the door later, she was gone.

Han pushed himself to his feet. "Leia. . .?" he asked carefully. He took a step forward.

Leia didn't care that he was watching. She bowed her head, and burst into tears.

* * *

The porthole in the wall of Luke's cell was small and dirty, but it was enough for him to tell that Coruscant's skyline was _vastly_ different to Tatooine's.

Summer was starting to fade—the temperature change was barely noticeable in areas like his homeland, but in Alderaan and Coruscant and other Core countries, it was impossible to ignore. And although the coming autumn was still new, it was on an especially cold day that they docked in the capital's bustling ports.

Luke was dragged out of the brig shivering, his father's metal hand bitingly cold on his shoulder. A fine mist had settled over the city, mixing with the usual smog of a centre of industry. The hustle and bustle of people moving off the ship, onto the ship, round the ship and just past the ship to other ships on the dock, was nothing more than silhouettes a slightly darker grey than the fog. _Pea soup fog_ , Luke had heard it called.

The only light was by the street lamps, a soft yellow that cast everything into shadow. It tinged it all amber—from the glint off his father's sword, to the slightly sickly pale faces of the white-clothed sailors, to Luke's hair, damp with sweat and matted to his forehead. The face of the man who came up to them—the captain Luke had spoken to on Tatooine all those weeks ago—was cast into a dichotomy of orange and black by it, the shape of his face set in stark relief.

"Captain Piett," Vader greeted. With a careless shove, Luke was forced forward, the manacles clinking round his hands. "I leave him in your care. Transfer him to the quarters established on the _Executor_ , and assign someone to supervise him until I return."

"Yes, my lord," Piett replied, while Luke just blinked. The _Executor_? Why was he—

Piett yanked on his manacles; Luke grimaced. "Come along now." The wind picked up slightly as Vader glared. Piett added hurriedly, "Sir. Come—the _Executor_ is this way."

"What. . ." Luke twisted round as he was led away, but his father just strode in the opposite direction. Before he could so much as open his mouth to shout after him, the amber light slid over his hair, then he disappeared into the fog.

* * *

Vader knew he'd left Luke confused, cold and alone, but there was nothing for it. His arrival had been long delayed as it was; he needed to see the Emperor as soon as possible.

He'd only hoped, all the journey here, that he wouldn't be too late.

Upon entering the Imperial palace, he followed all the protocol. He dispensed of his weapons—he _was_ technically allowed to wear them, but it was a sign of respect—and shrugged off his boots, his coat. No one wanted to risk anyone from outside the palace, especially one who saw as much blood as Vader did, transmitting any sort of infection.

Because the Emperor was dying.

It was a secret kept from all but the most high-ranking officials—Tarkin and the likes, Vader himself. Emperor Palpatine had been extremely ill for months now. They'd hidden the news, excused his lack of public appearances for fear of assassination attempts, but sooner or later it would leak out. If not on its own, then certainly after he died.

So Vader was grateful beyond anything that when he came into the grand bedchamber, his Master's chest still rose and fell with breaths. Difficult breaths, but breaths nonetheless.

He sat himself down in the chair at his bedside and waited for him to wake. Fingering the elaborate crimson thread at one of his cuffs, he glanced around the room.

He always felt foolish here, sitting in his grandest attire, in the colours of a Coruscanti nobleman. He didn't fit in. He was an ex-slave, from the lowest of the low—how had he become the second-in-command of the greatest Empire in the world?

How had he drawn the attention of a goddess like Amidala, to be blessed with someone like Luke?

He knew the answer to that of course: through others. The Jedi were one example, but he had quickly proven himself too good for them, crushing them to dust under his boots. But only with the help of. . .

Palpatine.

Everything he had, he owed to Palpatine.

It was Palpatine who'd shown him how to save Padmé's life all those years ago; it was Palpatine who'd sent forces in to save _his_ life; it was Palpatine who'd given him a place in his budding Empire, a way for him to wreak revenge on everyone. Slavers, Jedi, Rebels—they had all fallen before him. Because of the power he'd acquired from Padmé, of course, but also the power he'd been granted by Palpatine.

And now the man was dying, and he didn't know what to do.

Vader had been named heir to the childless man the moment his health started to wane, back when Palpatine could bear to stand through pompous ceremonies so long as he was rushed back to bed moments after. He knew what he was expected to do.

But he also knew that he _was not ready_.

He could serve. He ruled over the navy with an iron fist, but _serving_ was all he _knew_. Forcibly, as a child; by choice, now. Give him the military and he would make the world bow to the throne, but he would not sit there himself. He would be among those who were bowing.

But only if he was bowing to someone he respected, _loved_. . .

His breath caught in his throat.

He did not have to rule. Palpatine was not the only person in the world whom he loved—not anymore.

Luke could be Emperor.

Luke, the son of goddesses and men, the power of the sea at his command. . . Yes. He could rule, and rule well, once Vader fixed his ideas on the world.

Vader bowed his head, a curious weight lifting from his shoulders. Grief still hung there, a heavy burden, but. . . he would not be alone when his mentor died. He would have Luke.

He didn't realise he was smiling faintly until a few croaked words chased it away.

"Lord Vader."

He snapped his gaze up to Palpatine. Bleary eyes pried themselves open to meet his; skin that was more wrinkled than smooth stretched into a small smile.

"My old friend," he murmured. "What on earth took you so long in returning?"

There was a sudden lump in Vader's throat. "I found my son."

Palpatine let out a breath. "Amidala's child lived?"

"Yes."

An expression flitted across Palpatine's face—something that could've been disappointment, satisfaction, or both at the same time. Then it was gone.

"I am glad," he said. "I have a worthy heir, and my heir has a dynasty. My Empire will survive the generations. And. . ." He paused, then admitted, "I am glad you have someone left. Amidala may have been a traitor, who needs to be destroyed. . ."

Vader's hands clenched into fists. He didn't want to think about her—he didn't want to think about _Ahsoka_ , making him feel a little less alone but all the while working for her—

". . .but her son may yet right her wrongs. I am sure he will make a wonderful Emperor, once you have passed. He will uphold our legacy. Tell me," he pressed, "what is he like?"

"Opposed to everything we stand for." Vader said the words with a twist of his lips.

"A slaver, then?"

"No. He is against slavery. But he hates everything else." He took a breath. "Alderaan especially. . ."

"Ah, the education of the common masses. The destruction on Alderaan was a way to make them fear justice, and fear of retribution has always been a deterrent for criminals. Does a petty thief not fear time in prison, or the hangman's noose? Does that not prevent a great many opportunists from tearing society apart from the inside?"

Vader nodded. This was what Palpatine had always taught him—the ends justify the means. Everything can and should be sacrificed, to achieve a peaceful society.

To achieve the glory of the Empire.

"He will come to understand it, my friend. Once you have taught him, shown him the true role he was born to inherit, he will accept it. He will even support it. You simply have to be patient—"

" _I do not know how to make him understand_."

He whispered the words, ashamed and quiet with it. Here he was again, begging for help, just like he'd _always_ needed Palpatine's help and he _couldn't do this alone_ —

Palpatine frowned a little. "Is he anything like you were, at that age?"

Luke had run into what he'd known was a trap to save his friend. He had fought his father every step of the way. He made friends with anyone and everyone. "Very much so, Master."

"Then he will come around—look at you, after all these years, after all. But he will likely respond more to showing than telling." He reached out a hand, to place it on Vader's knee. " _Show him_ what our Empire does, my friend, the order and peace we bring. Then he will understand."

Vader nodded. "Yes, Master."

"Is he the one for whom you ordered those quarters on the _Executor_?"

"Yes."

"I would expect nothing less—from what I heard, they were fit for a king. A prince of the Empire would do well in them." he added, "And it is for the best he acquaints himself with your new flagship. When you take the throne, he will need to perform your current duties in your stead." Vader pinched his lips together at the words; Palpatine's brows rose marginally. "You object?"

"I. . . had hoped," he swallowed, "I'd hoped that my son—"

"Would become Emperor instead," Palpatine finished, eyes narrowed.

Vader rushed to defend himself. "You know I have no interest in politics, Master, and Luke is just a boy. I would not want him fighting wars at sea where I can't protect him." _I've already lost him once._

"Luke?" his Master said after a moment. "That is his name?"

"Yes, Master. Luke Skywalker."

Palpatine nodded, looking thoughtful. "He will need formal training. You must bring him to me—I can teach him. I may even be able to help you bring him around to our point of view."

"Thank you, Master. He is being installed on the _Executor_ as we speak, but I shall bring him to you tomorrow."

"I look forward to it." He patted Vader's knee twice, then retracted his hand. "Now, I grow weary and I can see you wish to return to your son. No," he insisted when Vader made to protest, "I understand. You have lost so many years of his life, while I have had you by my side. You deserve this time with him."

Gratitude filled Vader's chest. "Thank you, Master."

"I shall see you tomorrow, old friend. Now go," he closed his eyes, settling back against the pillows, "and make me and my Empire proud."

Vader gently drew the curtains closed around the bed. Then, careful not to wake him, he crept out of the room.

* * *

Leia was getting antsy. It had only been a day since she'd learned about. . . _everything_. . . but she'd cried all her tears. Now, she needed to _move_ —she needed a distraction from the knowledge until it found its place in her heart.

So she supposed it was just as well that it was then that Padmé called a meeting to assemble a team for a strike force on an Imperial outpost, and that she wanted Leia and Han on it.

They met in another room in the manor—Varykino, the house was called; apparently the family whose last name Padmé bore used to live here. It was a small room, with only a wide window that Padmé stood with her back to for illumination. Leia couldn't help but notice yet another starbird peeping in.

The day was cloudy, but what little sunlight _did_ seep in touched the dust motes in the air and set Padmé's outline ablaze. Leia could almost actually see her as a goddess, then, with gold light wound in a halo through her hair.

She stood before a table, holding a map and compass, with perhaps a dozen people including Leia and Han crowded round it. She took a quick inventory of everyone she could see: a tall, handsome woman; a boy about Leia's age with blazing blue eyes and a cheeky grin; a couple, the man slim and the woman with two thick plaits that hung to her waist; a teenage girl with armour all the colours of the rainbow; and, of course, Chewie.

The moment Chewie noticed Han, he started lecturing him about something or another. Leia had no idea what he was saying, but it was amusing anyway.

A few more men filed in behind them, then Padmé began, "I've called you all here because I believe your talents would be useful in an attack we intend to carry out on the Imperial communications outpost on Coruscant."

"The eyries where the comm hawks live?" the blue-eyed boy from earlier piped up. The slim man shot him a warning glare, but Padmé waved him off.

"Yes."

"What good will gettin' rid that do?" It was Han who asked the question this time—Leia and Chewie weren't the only ones who glared at _him_ , either.

"Part of the reason the Empire is so efficient at counteracting our attacks is their ability to communicate between territories. This outpost is an important part of that—while it may not receive reports of minor skirmishes, it's where the capital gets news from all over the continent. And it's where the Emperor decides where Vader and the bulk of his navy should go next." She caught Leia's eye meaningfully.

Leia's throat dried. _Luke_.

"Eliminating _this_ outpost," Padmé went on, "will disrupt their communications and make it harder for them to transmit important messages. Especially when Vader's away from the Core. With our own systems still intact, we'll have the information they base their movements on before they do. We'll be able to intercept and stop them more easily. And the time for this strike is _now_."

"Even with Vader on Coruscant?" the woman with two plaits asked. No one glared at her—Leia assumed she was high-ranking enough to interrupt these meetings.

"Yes, General Syndulla. Vader is currently on Coruscant to change his flagship from the _Devastator_ to the _Executor_. He's nearer than he would be at most other times of the year, but bogged down in ceremonial procedure and pomp. It will take longer than usual to respond to the threat, by which point your team will be out of there.

"And it has to be now," she added. "Our. . . _informant_ on the _Devastator_ has been compromised, and we can no longer expect any reports from her. Not only is the _Executor_ reportedly faster and more heavily armed than Vader's current flagship, but after this exchange we have no intel on what Vader's movements might be. This is the last chance we have to do this effectively and strike a crippling blow to the Empire."

Leia frowned at the map, then back up at Padmé. "So what's the plan?"

* * *

"This ain't gonna work," were the first words out of Han's mouth when they left.

Leia whirled on him before the door to their quarters even slammed shut. "Then why didn't you say so before?"

"I _did_ say so before!" Indeed he had. She doubted any of the Rebels would be forgiving his scathing words for a _long_ time. "The whole plan's suicide, and even if it works, what then?"

"What _then_?" Leia scoffed. "We're that much closer to toppling the Empire and saving Luke, that's what. Were you _listening_ in there?"

Han snorted as he plopped himself onto the sofa, crossing one leg over the other. "In case you've forgotten, sweetheart, I ain't in this for your little Rebellion. I don't even know if I'm even here for _Luke_ anymore, it's a lot of hassle for one kid—"

Leia sat in the armchair opposite him. "You don't mean that."

Han grimaced and inspected the carpet. Leia followed his gaze, and noticed again that pattern of fleur de lis. Whoever the Naberries had been, they'd had some very tasteful decorators.

"Maybe I don't," he admitted. "He's a good kid, he doesn't deserve it. But I'm not risking my life _and_ Chewie's life in a fool's cause just to save him."

"Then why are you still here, Han?" she snapped. She couldn't explain why she was so _angry_ all of a sudden, just that the thought of Han leaving Luke behind—leaving _her_ behind—made her go cold. "You know full well you don't give a damn about my family and this war, so _why are you still here_? What do you want?"

"No," Han bit right back, "why are _you_ here, Your Worshipfulness? I know your Ma offered you rooms next to hers—why're you _here_ , hanging around me and Chewie, when you could be lording it up with a _goddess_." He still said the word with a cynical sneer. "What do you want?"

"I want you to stay!" She shouted the words before she thought about them. "I want— I want you to care about Luke, I want you to _help me get him back_!" Her voice cracked a little. "I'm scared for him, Han."

Han scoffed again, but still looked vaguely uncomfortable as he said, "You know what Her Ladyship said, the kid's with his father, he won't get hurt."

" _I'm still scared for him!_ "

A sort of silence fell in the wake of her words. Han looked more awkward than ever.

"And," she admitted, "maybe I'm a little scared for me as well."

The destruction of Alderaan had left her with no family, and nothing she'd been able to do had stopped it.

Now she'd found a family again, with Luke and Han and Padmé. . . and she didn't want to lose it. Especially to a man who was supposed to be her father.

She didn't want to be alone.

"That's why I'm here, Captain Solo," she said. Her eyes were dry, tearless—she would not cry, she would get even; she would not cry, she would get even, _she would not cry, she would get even_ — "Why are you?"

They stared at each other for a few long moments. Han was breathing heavily, trying to say something. He took in a breath, opened his mouth, closed it again. Repeat.

And repeat again.

Took in a breath. Opened his mouth. . .

. . .and closed it again.

Leia shook her head. When she pushed herself off the armchair and strode out of the room, Han made no move to stop her.


	13. The Emperor

There was a starbird at the porthole. Luke, used to the creatures' presences by now, smiled at it.

"Hello," he murmured. It cocked its head at him. "I don't have any food for you, I'm afraid, but maybe later. . ."

The bird hopped through the porthole and onto the bed. Its head swivelled from side to side, just as Luke's had when he was first introduced to these new quarters, taking in the substantially larger room, the small tub in the corner for washing, the lanterns hanging off the low ceiling. Everything, from the table to the chairs to the curtains drawn open around his bed, was of a much higher quality than he'd otherwise seen at sea.

Luke didn't want to consider the implications of that. He'd probably find out soon enough as it was.

After all, he was due to meet Emperor Palpatine today.

He pinched his lips together, unable to ignore the foreboding in his chest. He'd heard so much about their nebulous _Emperor_ , taught in every school in the Empire as if he was some sort of mythical figure. He didn't exactly _want_ to find out what was fact and what was fantasy.

The bird cocked its head the other way, and peered at him. Luke's own head followed the motion, peering right back. The creature had odd eyes, too bright for its wings. The last time he'd seen eyes of that hue and size was on Old Ben. . .

There was a harsh knock at the door—the same one that always preceded Vader's entrances. Luke didn't know why he bothered—he'd tried shouting "Don't come in!" before, and Vader always came in regardless—but he supposed it was just a courtesy. Or, perhaps, a warning.

So he didn't bother acknowledging it. There were the sounds of Vader undoing the lock on his door, then it swung upon and his father stepped in.

He jerked his head at Luke. "We're going," was the only greeting he offered.

Luke didn't need anything else—he'd been given a time, after all, and the clock in the corner of the room told him his father's punctuality was on the dot. He'd been ready for over half an hour.

He pushed himself to his feet, tugging absentmindedly at the bottom of his shirt. The clothes had been provided to him upon entering his rooms—he wasn't sure what had happened to his old clothes, or the hand-me-down Imperial sailors' uniforms he'd been wearing for the past weeks; he had a funny feeling they'd been burned. _These_ clothes, though. . .

A crisp, black shirt. Knee-high boots, so new and well-fitting that he had to wonder when they'd been made—or whom they'd been made for. A red and gold jacket—waistcoat?—that seemed to suck all the air out of him when he fastened it.

They were a far cry from Luke's faded and second-hand—but colourful!—shirts that would make Aunt Beru claim she was dying a little inside every time she saw him wearing them, his ratty trousers, boots which had been too small three summers ago. . . He hadn't been sure initially what it was that bothered him so much about the change of clothes.

Looking at his father, he knew it now.

They were a near clear reference of what Vader wore, only newer. Fancier. The jacket had embroidery on the shoulders, gold buttons across the front. . .

"Come," Vader snapped, impatient at Luke's dawdling. He held his hand out.

Luke didn't see any choice besides taking it, so take it he did.

The docks were as busy as when they'd arrived. Luke had been able to hear the racket from his room, but it was one thing to hear it and another to be _in_ it. The stench of sweat, the hot press of bodies against his lingered even after his father used the grip on his wrist to yank him into a waiting carriage.

It didn't _look_ all that fancy, but the Imperial insignia emblazoned on the doors was enough to tell people to stay away. And it was cool inside.

Luke collapsed onto the bench opposite his father and worked his shoulder. The waistcoat had become rumpled and twisted in the throng; he tried to tug it back into shape. His aunt would tut at him if she saw him walking around dishevelled, and even if she was now _gone_ , thanks to the very man before him, he could still—

Vader's mechanical hand reached out and yanked it back into place.

Luke stopped his fumbling before he got his fingers dislocated. He sat there, oddly cowed.

Vader was still watching him with a thoughtful frown, eyes flicking all the way over him: from his boots, polished to perfection; to his collar, sharp and spotless; to a spot on the breast of his jacket. Luke glanced down to see what it was he found so interesting.

There was a scuff of something over the buttons and fabric there, the Imperial insignia printed into the metal obscured. Fat or dirt or sweat, Luke wasn't sure. Vader's thumb swiped it away, but his gaze lingered on the patch.

"So easily spoiled," he said.

Then he sat back and turned his attention to something out of the window.

They arrived at the Imperial palace soon after. A butler, or doorman, or _something_ —Luke didn't know what the servants in a palace were called—made to open the door, but Vader was on his feet and out of there before he could. The man's hand hovered in the air for a moment, then he turned the palm up to offer it to Luke. "Sir?"

Luke stared at him, then his father—it's _one step_!—but he took the hand and let him help him down.

From the moment his feet touched the ground, he felt cold inside.

The light was brighter here than by the docks—further away from the smog of industry, he figured. There was nothing to mask the shining palace before him, the wrought iron gates they'd just come through, the green, green grass and the fountains dotted about the courtyard. The carriage stood on a cobbled road; Luke and Vader stood on a path of white stones. Those stones wound their way forward through the massive courtyard, expanding into a star with a small fountain at each point and a statue of the Emperor at the centre, then forward some more until they morphed into white steps. At the top of the steps stood a door three times taller than his father, twice as wide as the carriage. An iron knocker gleamed.

Luke felt light-headed.

What was he doing here? He shouldn't be here. He was nobody.

But the boy he'd seen in the mirror earlier wasn't him.

Luke had ruddy skin from a lifetime of working the forge; this boy was pale from weeks in the brig. Luke bought second-hand clothes that never fit properly, making him seem smaller than his childhood nickname of "Wormie" already implied; this boy wore perfectly tailored, perfectly trimmed clothes that cost more than Luke's entire forge.

Luke was the son of Anakin Skywalker, nephew of Owen and Beru Lars, a blacksmith.

This boy was a prince.

This was not him. This _was not him_ —

There was a hand on his shoulder—metal, cool against the flushed heat of his skin, even through the fabric.

He uncurled his fists, let out a ragged breath he hadn't realised he was holding, then looked up at his father.

Vader's expression was stern. He wasn't looking at Luke—was, rather, frowning up at the palace—but he squeezed his shoulder lightly. Almost affectionately, in fact.

"Come," he said, dropping his hand and leading on without so much as a glance at the poor, terrified butler.

Luke went.

* * *

The palace was even grander inside. It almost made Luke physically sick, looking at all the casual displays of wealth when the memory of what poverty looked like was so fresh in his mind. But he kept up with his father.

He was led down a hall, whereupon he was made to strip off his boots. The attendant tried to get him to take off his waistcoat as well, but Vader stopped him—something about how "It was the Emperor who bade him wear it; the Emperor will see him in it."

Then he was through another set of double doors, into an antechamber, another door, and—

A bedroom.

Luke blinked in shock. A throne room, he'd expected, a meeting chamber perhaps, but. . . the Emperor's _bedroom_?

He shot his father a glance. His father wasn't looking at him.

What was going on? Was the Emperor—

The thought ground to a halt when one of the other doors in the room opened, and a decrepit man hobbled out.

He was hunched over, appeared frail as anything—the folds of his black shawl almost swallowed him up. He held his cane in a single gnarled hand.

When he lifted his head, Luke had the urge to shudder, though he couldn't have said why.

"Lord Vader," he greeted in a rasp that may have been caused by some illness, or may just be his voice. "Thank you, my friend, for paying an old man a visit again. And is this the boy?" He turned his gaze—an unsettlingly bright amber—on Luke, and held out his hand. "Young man, I've looked forward to meeting you."

Luke didn't respond. He didn't know how to. This was the Master Vader served, this was the man who ordered the invasion of countries, the execution of their leaders, the embargos on non-Imperial trade that led to the poverty Luke had known his entire life. . .

How was he supposed to react, when the face of so many evils was that of a kindly old man?

He'd been still for too long. Vader put a hand on his shoulder and shoved him forward.

The Emperor caught him as he stumbled. His hand grasped his wrist—his grip surprisingly strong for anyone, let alone a frail man—and only chuckled when Luke yanked it away. He reached for his chin instead and tilted his head this way and that. Inspecting him like chattel.

"You seem like a bright young lad," he commented. His lips twisted up into a smile as he glanced up at Vader. "I can see his parents in him. You, certainly, old friend, but. . . also his mother."

Vader stiffened at the words, but Palpatine wasn't looking at him. He'd turned back to Luke.

"Have you your mother's gifts?"

Luke didn't answer.

His father's hand was on his shoulder again, squeezing tightly. The metal bit and pinched cruelly. "He has."

"Good." Palpatine dropped his hand from Luke's chin. "A clever lad like him, blessed with the powers of a god? He will serve us well."

"I won't serve you at all!"

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop, but he couldn't bring himself to regret them. It was true.

The Emperor's face darkened into a snarl.

He smacked him.

Luke's head snapped to the side with the force of it. His face burned—half from pain, half from humiliation—as he instinctively hunched back against any further blows.

None came. Vader's grip on his shoulder had constricted to something like a vice, bruising him.

The Emperor's snarl had vanished as soon as it came, like a cloud on a sunny day. He looked on him with pity.

"I am sorry, my boy," he said warmly. "That was an overreaction. It's natural that you should think this way. You were raised by commoners, far from your rightful station, and so you lack the fine manners expected of one of us. I was meant to fix that, not punish you for it."

"I don't want to be one of you," Luke snarled. He touched his lip gently—his finger came away red. "I'm _not_ one of you."

"Oh, but you are, child. Look at you. Look how well you wear your finery." He ran a possessive finger over the jackets, skimming the buttons. Luke took a savage pleasure in knowing that had been the area the fat had been wiped off of. "You may be uncomfortable in them now, but you'll grow accustomed to it. You will learn. I will teach. As it was meant to be from the start."

"I won't," Luke insisted, ignoring his father's ever-tightening grip.

"You will. In time. But we shall make a start today. Come." He waved a hand towards the table in the corner, set with three chairs, then help out that same hand. "Help an old man to his seat."

Once again, Luke thought about refusing.

But he was his aunt's nephew, and Aunt Beru had always taught him to be polite.

So he took the Emperor's arm. As he did, the blood that had been transferred from his lip to his finger was smeared across the white embroidery of Palpatine's blazer. One drop even dripped onto the carpet, decorated in a pattern of gold and burgundy diamonds.

 _So easily spoiled_ , Vader had said. Luke found a vicious satisfaction in it.

Palpatine leaned on him as they went, and Luke had to stifle a grunt at the weight. For all the fact that he was skin and bones and cloth, the man was _heavy_.

But they made it to the table easily enough, and Palpatine sank into one of the chairs with a sigh. Vader took the other, so Luke was left to settle into the third, hyperaware of the fact that his back was to the door, wedged in next to his father.

To keep him from escaping? Where would he even _go_?

"You seem better today, Master," Vader commented as Palpatine put his cane aside.

"Indeed, Lord Vader. My illness has good and bad days—I am grateful I was feeling well enough for this meeting. I fear I won't be for the coming weeks."

Luke blinked. "You're dying?"

Vader stiffened at the question, but Palpatine waved it off.

"Not quite yet, my child. I have a few years left in me still—time enough, I hope, to train my successor."

"Your successor?" There was something weighted in the words, but Luke couldn't quite work out what it was. "Vader?"

Whether either of them noticed his use of the name, and not _"Father"_ , they gave no indication. Vader just shook his head, while the Emperor's smile widened.

"No, young Skywalker," he said. "You."

"Me." Luke repeated it once, the meaning not quite clicking. "Me? What— no!" He shot to his feet. "I won't be Emperor! Why would I?"

"You will," Palpatine continued doggedly. "Your father is my heir, but he finds politics tiresome. Nor does the Court have any fondness for him. _You_ they do not know, not yet, and there is still time to make them support you."

"I won't! I won't be Emperor."

The Emperor's voice hardened slightly. "You _will_." A beat. "Sit _down_ , Skywalker."

"I'll dissolve the Empire." Luke was hyperventilating now, staring from Palpatine to Vader to Palpatine to Vader to the window to the tablecloth to the carpet to his own hands, flexing on the table. "I'll— I'll surrender to the Rebellion, negotiate, I'll—"

He snapped his mouth shut when Vader clamped his hand down on his shoulder again, forcing him back into his seat. There was a bruise there by now—the slightest pressure sent pain splintering all across his back, made his eyes water. His lip still stung.

Palpatine placed a wrinkled hand on his fidgeting ones, forcing them still. "You will come round to our point of view soon," he assured him. "I understand that this is all very new to you, and you're shy and afraid. You haven't been raised the way you should have—my, I wouldn't be surprised if you thought that the Jedi were good and the sky isn't blue!"

Luke glanced out the window—the sunshine from earlier had faded, clouds had swept in. It had started to rain.

A starbird flitted past.

"But here," the Emperor said, drawing Luke's attention back to him as he passed a book over the table. "This will begin to set you straight."

Luke picked it up to read the silver words embellished on the cover. _The History of the Coruscanti Empire_.

"This contains the basics of everything a future ruler of our Empire would need to know, and summarises it in a brief, concise fashion."

Luke eyed the thick tome—he expected there were even more pages here than there were years to Palpatine's life. "Brief and concise," he said dully.

"Yes, child. Obviously I shall teach you in more detail, but I expect you to be familiar with its contents by the time we move onto that. We'll cover manners first."

Luke slammed the book back down on the table. "I won't."

"You will."

"I _won't_. I'm not a prince, or whatever's going on here. This isn't right—the whole damn Empire isn't right. I refuse to be a part of it!"

Palpatine's expression soured, but he just said, _again_ , in a measured voice, "You will learn," as if he thought if he said it often enough, it would come true.

"What!" Luke was _done_ with all this. " _What will I learn?_ "

The Emperor met his gaze coolly. "That some people are born to serve," he said coolly, "and some people are born to rule."

* * *

The team Padmé had assembled had left for Coruscant the very morning after the briefing.

The ship was the _Ghost_ , and Leia was surprised to learn that several of the people at the briefing has only been there because they were staple hands on the ship. They wouldn't be helping with the attack; they were just transport and cover fire.

It left about a half dozen of them to actually pull it off. Although, logically, Leia knew that the plan was based on stealth and not brute force, it still made her nervous.

The journey was expected to take three weeks. They needed to take a less direct course, apparently, to avoid Imperials, so three weeks was already optimistic, but they had Leia on board so they were making good time. Two of those weeks had elapsed when Leia came up to the deck of the small ship one day and found the tall, blonde woman waiting by Leia's usual spot at the prow.

From a distance, it always seemed like her hair was cut short. She wore plain, practical gear to go with it; it wouldn't be an unreasonable assumption. But as Leia drew closer, she realised what she hadn't before. Her hair was very long, but tied around her head in a hairstyle that was intimately familiar to Leia.

She joined her at the prow.

"I'm Leia Organa," she said to introduce herself, holding out her hand. Her strong voice belied her uncertainty.

The woman inspected the hand she offered like it was a suspicious trade deal, or maybe even a tentacle. "I know."

Leia's hand dropped. Her accent—

"You don't call yourself Naberrie, my lady? Or Amidala? You're the goddess's daughter."

"I was raised by Organas. I'm an Organa." She narrowed her eyes up at the woman—she was a good deal taller than her. "What's _your_ name?"

"Evaan Verlaine, miss," she answered. She was watching Leia again, as if in challenge. The name _did_ sound familiar, but where. . .

"You're Alderaanian." The accent, the hairstyle.

"I am. Or," disgust twisted her words, "I _was_. There's not much left now is there, my lady?"

"Why do you keep calling me that?" _Why do you seem so familiar?_

"I was one of those lucky enough to be personally tutored by your aunt, my lady. She taught me much."

"Evaan Verlaine." The memories came to her in a rush. "Aunt Breha said you favoured military tactics and history, unlike most Alderaanians." At the look of vague offence on Evaan's face, she added, "She said it in a good way!"

"Hmph." Evaan rolled her eyes. "Nevertheless, you are _my lady_ because you are her niece, and so have that title, as little as you've done to deserve it."

Ire rose up in her at that, but Leia stamped at it with the heel of her boot, squashed it down hard. Even so, she snapped a little as she said, "You're angry at me."

"You _fled_ when Alderaan was razed," Evaan said. Her voice was full of scorn. "Our people needed you most in the wake of your aunt and uncle's executions, and you were off gallivanting with a pirate and a blacksmith."

" _Smuggler_ ," Leia corrected. "And what did you expect me to do? I'm _eighteen_. I have no political power of my own, no military training. What did you expect me to do against the might of the Empire?"

"Show them that you were still alive! They could have rallied around you, against the Empire. You could have given them _hope_."

"Hope," Leia said. " _Hope_. Well, I'm sorry, but I was a bit short on that myself, set adrift in a longboat while I watched the ship my uncle had put me on get burned to ashes!"

Evaan blinked at that. "What?"

"When the alarms sounded, my uncle gave me into the care of his most trusted sailor, and I was shipped out of harbour to get _anywhere_ but there." Leia found she couldn't meet Evaan's gaze. She looked down, at the writhing of the sea. "I stood on deck and stared as Alderaan burned behind us.

"And almost as soon as it was out of sight," she continued bitterly, "we were attacked by pirates. I was the only survivor."

Her throat was dry. "I thought I'd die then," she admitted, "before my brother saved me. And I've never felt so helpless. I wanted to kill them all for making me so helpless."

When she looked back up, Evaan's eyes were on her face.

She said, haltingly, "When I heard about Alderaan, it was on Naboo. I hadn't been in the mess hall when Ms Amidala gave the announcement, so another sailor, knowing I'm Alderaanian, sought me out to tell me personally. It was the worst moment of my life.

"But later," she added, "when Ms Amidala started running relief efforts to help the survivors, I was the first to volunteer. My family had been living in Alderaan—I had to hope they were still alive.

"So I got there. Only to find that—" She took a deep breath. "Only to find that after the initial attack, after the fleet had moved on, was chasing _you_ —"

She took another breath. "The Emperor sent orders for the survivors rounded up and shot."

The bottom had fallen out of Leia's stomach. She thought she was going to be sick.

All she could get out was, " _Everyone_?"

Evaan closed her eyes. "Everyone."

When had this happened?

Who else knew about this?

Han?

Luke, Lando?

 _Padmé_?

How many knew?

How many knew, and had kept it from her?

And _why_?

She fancied she knew exactly why.

"All those people," she said. "Dead."

Evaan nodded, and it only spurred Leia on.

"My aunt and uncle," she said. "Dead."

Evaan nodded again.

"Dead." The word was a whisper, half to herself, half to the wind. She was looking down as she said it, her chin tucked against her chest.

Then she crumpled forwards.

There was a shout—Evaan made to catch her, but she propped herself up against the side of the ship, gripping it like a lifeline.

Dead.

Dead, dead, dead.

She hadn't let herself think about it, until now. So caught up in an ancient tragedy, one that had happened before she was born, _because_ she was born, that she hadn't thought to investigate—

She hadn't considered that—

She clutched Evaan's arm, still wrapped around her. They were dead. Evaan's family, Leia's family—everyone was dead.

She couldn't comprehend it. She hadn't seen Alderaan in the aftermath, so in her mind's eye she only saw it as it had been: unspoiled.

The shining palace of Aldera.

Her aunt's stern look.

Her uncle's warm smile.

It was gone.

Her eyes drifted back to the swell of the ocean. Repetitive, rhythmic; it was soothing to watch. But the sun had risen ever higher now, the inevitable passage of time, and the spray lit up like the sea was spitting sparks.

It hurt her eyes. She closed them.

Even then, the sunlight seared through her eyelids. She couldn't escape it, and she couldn't escape the truth.

She stood there, practically hugging Evaan, for a very long time. The sun rose higher, the light only got brighter. Her skin began to burn under its intensity.

But she kept standing there anyway.


	14. The Awakening, Part I

They reached Coruscant a week later. The skyline was hazy with smog, but something in Leia leapt at the sight of it—hadn't Padmé said that Vader was there, right now? Would Luke be with him?

But then they sailed past the capital city, and the feeling was gone.

The communications post was further south, surrounded by crags and mountains and cliffs. It was the natural home for the hawks, Padmé had explained—plus the terrain made it difficult for large groups of ranged attackers to get near.

But everyone here, coincidentally enough, had some sort of experience in climbing—even if Leia and Evaan's was simply the rigorous pathfinding lessons mandatory on Alderaan. And they weren't a large group.

"How fast will they be able to send reinforcements?" Leia had asked at the briefing.

"By land or by sea?"

"Both."

"Not fast enough to catch us."

Staring up at the jagged cliff they were supposed to scale, Leia hoped her mother was right.

It was twilight by the time they arrived, and although the starlight was bright, Leia found herself clutching her lantern tightly. The _Ghost_ docked at the base of the cliff for just long enough for everyone to unpack the climbing gear, then they were off again. They'd be back at sunset, but until then they didn't want to risk staying out in the open for too long.

"Don't want to risk getting hit by falling boulders, more like," Leia muttered, eyeing the dark cliff above her. She tugged nervously at the rope attached to her harness, but they held her firm, despite how badly they chafed.

Evaan heard her complaint. "It's basalt. It's a harder rock than the chalk cliffs that were near Alderaan," she stated in what might pass for a reassuring manner. "It's less likely to crumble underneath us."

Han, on Leia's other side, grunted. "'Less likely' ain't impossible."

Evaan's gaze cooled considerably as it flicked to Han. "Then you'd better be careful."

"Be quiet," Leia said, just before the call came to start the climb. Her lantern rattled against the rope as she heaved herself up. "I'm trying to focus."

"As you wish, my lady."

"Sure, Your Highnessness."

She wasn't sure which of them sounded more sarcastic.

But the six of them made it to the top soon enough, even if Leia wanted to die by the end of it. She slumped onto a rock and tried to catch her breath, ignoring Han's jabs.

They were all crouched behind a rocky outcrop a little way from the edge. Behind it, Leia knew, stood the communications tower, a tall grey monstrosity that didn't seem to understand the meaning of _centre of gravity_. Leia had caught a glimpse of it on the way up.

The leader of the mission was a scarred man with yellow eyes unnervingly large for his face, named Lokmarcha. He seemed to be doing his best not to sneer at Leia and her exhaustion—not to sneer at all of them, in fact—but his best wasn't very good.

"You all know the plan," he said.

"Wow, I dunno. Blow up the tower?"

" _Thank you_ , Solo." A muscle twitched in Lokmarcha's jaw. "We're to seize the outpost's store of gunpowder and, yes, use it. But we need a _distraction_ while we do this.

"So, one team will sneak into the cellar, where our spies report they keep their gunpowder for use in the cannons."

"They have _cannons_?" Leia burst out. She hadn't noticed _those_ on the way up, though it _had_ been dark. . .

"No, Princess, they're gonna blow the _Ghost_ outta the water with magic."

Leia scowled at Han. "Just because you're an idiot who doesn't believe—"

" _Anyway_ ," Lokmarcha interrupted. Leia felt he was starting to like her less and less as the night bore on. "One team will do that, while the other team causes a distraction so that the other team _can_ do that."

Evaan scoffed. "A distraction will just bring Vader down on our heads. Can't we do it stealthily?"

"Vader won't be able to come quick enough, if everyone does their jobs. If you have a problem, you should have brought it up at the briefing."

Evaan pinched her lips together, but conceded the point.

"Now, I'll be with Team One and handle the explosives. Chewbacca," he nodded at the man, "you seem strong enough to carry a few barrels; I'll need you with me. Kidi's got the layout and numbers memorised, so she'll be with us too." He tilted his head towards the sixth member of their group, a pale-haired woman who looked a lot younger than she was. "As for the distraction, well. . ."

He curled his lip at Leia, Han and Evaan. "You three seem talented at _disrupting_ things. I'm sure you'll do fantastically."

"What's the distraction supposed to be?"

Lokmarcha rolled his eyes. "You have pistols and swords. You'll think of something."

He pulled a timepiece out of his jacket pocket and showed it around. "We'll all meet back here in three hours, to get back down the cliff as fast as possible. For the time we have, it will be close, but we ought to be just far enough away to escape the blast. Be on time, or we _will_ leave without you. Is everything clear?"

 _Absolutely not._

Leia nodded. "Yes."

* * *

Chewie, Kidi and Lokmarcha were away within moments. Leia, Evaan and Han were left to plan.

Or freak out, in Han's case.

"This is crazy," he kept saying. "You're all crazy."

"You decided to come on this mission, you know."

"I was crazy!"

Leia said quietly, "You're here for Luke, remember?"

Han hesitated. "I— The kid's not worth—"

"Well I'll be sure to tell him you said that," Leia said coolly, "when we rescue him. Now, we need a plan."

Evaan snorted. "Lokmarcha was right. All we really need to do to _distract_ is _disrupt_. We could run up the stairs to the top of the tower screaming and shooting everywhere, and that would work."

"Yeah, as well as get us all killed!" Han shook his head. "Nah, we need something that strikes at the _heart_ of what they're doing, stirs 'em all into action, _without_ training all their attention on Rebel scum. There's a difference between distracting them, and bringing them down on Lokmarcha's head."

"The hawks."

Evaan and Han turned to her in synchrony. "What?"

Leia turned to Han. "You said we needed to strike at the heart of what they're doing. They're here to protect the hawks, and the communications. What if we set the hawks free?"

"That _would_ force them to round 'em all up again."

"But the hawks won't go," Evaan said. "They're highly trained—they deliver messages near-flawlessly, don't they? They won't leave their aerie for anything except to do their jobs, then come straight back."

"So we scare them out." Leia was starting to smile now. She tapped the handle of her pistol. "We fire a volley of shots, scare them half to death. I don't care how much training they have, if we get them scared enough, self-preservation will take over and they'll flee."

"Well that's just great, sweetheart," Han bit out. "But we've still gotta _get up there without dying_. You got a plan for _that_?"

Leia frowned. "Yes. . . of sorts."

* * *

"Creeping up the stairs and stabbing people ain't a plan!"

"Yes it is, and shouting is not a part of that plan. Make sure to whisper."

"You—" Han slammed his mouth shut when they heard another set of footsteps traipse down the stairs, no doubt to investigate the _racket_ he was causing. Evaan scowled at him, but violently gestured for the two of them to get back. The spiral staircase worked in their favour in that the Imperials barrelling down the stairs had no idea where they were until they were right in front of them.

This Imperial was no different. Evaan killed him before he even had the chance to scream.

"You know," Leia said, trying not to look at the copious amounts of blood they kept leaving on the stairs, "even if we're being quiet about it, _someone's_ going to notice all the dead bodies in our wake."

"This was _your_ plan, Princess."

"I'm _not_ a—"

"Then we get in as soon as possible, then _get out_ as soon as possible," Evaan said. "And make sure we're ready to fight our way out. We'll need to."

They got in as soon as possible.

Fortunately, the aerie was deserted when they went in. Fortunately, because if there'd been people inside they'd have had to fight from the moment they entered, and Leia was a bit distracted at that moment.

The aerie was _massive_.

Logically, it would have to be—it was the top Amidala-knew-how-many floors of the tower, and the thing had been _built_ for it. Not to mention that it was the _main aerie for comm hawks in the whole of the Empire_.

But knowing those things and _seeing_ those things were two very different experiences.

The room was well lit despite the darkness of the night; yellow lanterns hung from every beam on every floor, casting the place in a golden glow. The door they'd entered through wasn't even the bottom floor of the aerie—they were standing on some sort of mezzanine, and over the railing she could see another platform beneath them, and another, and another. There were even more above them, with three wooden spiral staircases linking the different levels. Large cages were stacked on every floor, with the hawks all huddled inside them, heads under their wings in sleep. A few of them emerged to blink at them.

Leia was broken from her awe when Han reached for his pistol. "Don't!" she hissed at him. "You'll just alert everyone to our presence, and the birds can't even fly away when their cages are still closed!"

"Like all the dead bodies haven't done that already!"

"Are the cages locked?" Evaan asked, examining one herself.

"No. I don't think the birds are creative enough to open this." Leia demonstrated her point by untwisting the wire that bound the door shut and letting it swing open. Well-oiled and maintained, it didn't so much as squeak as it did—and the birds were equally functional in that even with freedom beckoning them, they didn't so much as twitch. "Where do we need them to go?"

Han pointed with the barrel of his pistol. "Up there." She glanced up; sure enough, there was a large skylight in the ceiling, a canvas covering pulled across, open to the stars and the moon. The sight of it tugged at something inside her, the way she imagined it tugged on the tides—a yearning, almost, or a building of something under her skin. She took a deep breath.

"Then let's go." Stepping back into the role of leader easily enough—she was used to ordering people around, as an albeit inexperienced leader of Alderaan—she pointed to Evaan. "You take the lower levels and open the cages there; Han, you take the middle levels; I'll take the top." Something inside her wanted to get closer to the moon. "We'll meet back at the bottom. Shoot from there, make them want to fly _up_."

"Who died and made you Empress?"

But Han's objection was in vain. Evaan was already running down the stairs, and Leia was on her way up as well.

She hit the next level running and skidded to a halt in front of the first cage. She was trying so hard to move quickly that she fumbled to unwrap the wire, stabbing the tip into her thumb and drawing blood as she did, but eventually it worked and the door swung open. Then she was onto the next one, and the next, and the next.

Up to the next level, and the next, and the next—

She began to sweat, heat radiating off her face. A cool breeze brushed against the back of her neck. It stirred the strand of hair that had come loose from their braids, and she could've sworn she heard a voice with it, _almost_ her mother's voice, but not quite— _Keep going. Keep going. Keep going._

Leia kept going.

She wasn't sure how much time later she hit the top floor, where the skylight was so low it was barely _inches_ above her head—she was _short_ , this was _low_ ; did the handlers have to bend over when it was closed?—and one cage left. She eyed the single bird inside it for a moment; it eyed her back.

A convor.

What was a convor doing in a cage for Imperial comm hawks?

She undid the cage.

The convor chirped, almost as if it was _thanking_ her, twitched its wings, and took off. It nearly hit the canvas as it went, tearing a long gash in it with its claws.

She stood at the skylight—slanted, so she could see out into the night—and watching it go until it was a speck of dark grey against black. She could see everything up here: the specks of light in the tower below her, the rolling clouds, the deep, deep blue of the sea.

Then the clouds parting, and the moon and stars came out again.

She gasped a little as the moonlight hit her face, and again there was that stirring inside of her. It was a baptism; it was like coming home. A faint smile touched her lips. Here, up in the crisp night air, the sea crashing away beneath her, a breeze playing across the skin of her face, she felt truly—

A shot.

She whirled round. Han and Evaan had started shooting, their bullets barrelling out of the pistols. They lodged in the wooden beams of the tower, but they kept firing anyway. Already, several hawks had taken fright and were spinning up towards her, away from the shots.

She ducked as they soared out over her head. She turned to watch them, dark shadows against the night.

"You coming down here or not, Your Highnessness?" Han shouted up.

"Someone will _hear you_ ," she reprimanded on instinct, then realised how stupid that sounded and shut her mouth.

She was too high up to hear, but she imagined Han snorted. "As if they haven't already!" he called back up, lifting his pistol for another shot. "Now, get down here!"

"Wait!" Evaan barked, putting her hand on his arm to stop him firing. "I hear—"

The door burst open.

Leia couldn't help the shocked gasp that tore from her lips at the Imperial troops who filed in, their off-white uniforms bright against the dimness, yellow in the light.

Han and Evaan didn't waste a moment. They both turned their pistols on them, and fired.

Several men went down immediately, blood marring the fronts of their shirts, but more just kept coming, firing bullets of their own. The two retreated up the steps, up onto the next floor, but more men streamed out of the door on _that_ floor so they were chased up, and up, and up. . .

Another shot—this one hit a target. Evaan couldn't contain her cry as it went straight into her bicep, but she just gritted her teeth and kept firing.

Leia surged onto the steps herself, yanking out her own pistol to fire a few shots, but they all went wildly off; she was too far out of range. She went down the steps further—

"No, Leia!" Evaan shouted. "Stay back, stay out of range!"

And Leia was afraid, so she did what her friend said.

There was no way any of them could go down from here. They'd be peppered with bullets before they took two steps. So Han and Evaan were forced up, up towards Leia, even if none of them would have anywhere to go once they were there.

Not that Evaan ever got there.

Leia screamed when the bullet hit and she went down, clutching at her side with a shout of agony. Han's eyes widened; he grabbed for her hand, tried to keep her from falling backwards, down the steps into the oncoming surge. He missed by inches.

Evaan fell against the troopers. One of them lifted his pistol just long enough to send a bullet into her head, before continuing onwards.

Leia let out a sound that wasn't quite human. There she stood, next to the skylight, bathed in moonlight, watching one of her friends, a fellow Alderaanian, die in pain.

She'd already failed Alderaan. She'd failed Luke.

And now she'd failed Evaan as well.

That stirring was back, an itching, more like, prowling under her skin—

She screamed, and let it tear out of her.

A sudden wind barrelled down the stairs. Han had the presence of thought to drop, grab the railing, as it thundered past him; the troopers did not. They were caught by the full force of it, flying back into other troopers, into others—

They fell like dominoes.

Han got up and kept running.

But by the time he made it to Leia, so the troopers had managed to recover. They were still coming, and Leia still had that _itch_ under her skin, and—

"How the hell are we supposed to get out?" Han snapped. Leia whirled on him, breathing hard, tension in every line of her body. "Nice work, Princess, getting us stuck up here—"

But Leia wasn't listening anymore. Her eyes had snagged on the canvas crumpled next to the skylight—the canvas with the tear in it the convor had made.

Leia drew her sword, and hacked at it further. One strike, two strikes, five—it came loose. She seized it, one end in each hand, before that wind could carry it away.

"Grab onto me!" she told Han. He gaped at her, at her makeshift parachute.

"Are you crazy, lady? I ain't—"

She didn't wait for him to finish. She took a running jump, and _leapt_.

And she was falling.

The cold air smacked her across her face, the canvas crumpled in her hands, _she was falling_ —

A wind-snatched curse, then a weight slammed into her and she was falling again, Han's arms wrapped tightly across her torso. She tried to squint below her, against the raging winds, at the ground rapidly nearing them—

And then that _thing_ tore out of her once more.

The itch, the pressure under her skin, was gone. There was nothing but cool, clean air, filling her parachute and lifting them up, high above the tower, the rocks surrounding it. She choked on a scream, but it was delight—her arms may ache like nothing else, her eyes may sting with tears, but _this_. . .

Yet they were losing height fast. The ground still grew closer, in dizzying detail; she shouted and the wind caught them again, sending them spinning around—

To look straight at the tower as it imploded.

Rocks shattered outwards at the base, but the upper levels just. . . fell. The air around it was thick with frightened hawks as it plummeted to the ground, landing with a resounding _boom_.

Leia wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

They'd—

Chewie, Lokmarcha, Kidi, _they'd actually_ —

"Leia!" Han shouted in her ear. "We're about to go over!"

"Go over?" she shouted back. "Where!"

"Look!"

She looked down. Her eyes blew wide.

She could see the others below—the rendezvous point was just underneath them, with Team One sheltering behind the rocks from the explosion. They stared up at them with wide eyes as they sailed on, losing height but never slowing down, not soon enough to—

To avoid going over the cliff.

They were over it now, then past it, nothing but a deadly drop onto jagged rocks underneath. Leia closed her eyes in terror. What— what was going on?

She knew exactly what was going on. And somewhere deep inside her, she knew exactly how to fix it.

She was the daughter of Amidala, Goddess of the Sea. She was a _demigod._ The moon, the wind, the tides—it all called to her.

The wind had obeyed her commands.

The sea _must_.

They were descending fast, now—and _there_. There was the _Ghost_ , the ship they were due to return on; there was where they needed to go.

So Leia reached for that stirring inside her, the feeling of cool moonlight on her face, and shouted once more.

There was an almighty _splash_. They didn't hit the water; the water hit them. A massive column of it reached up to seize them out of the sky, and drag them into the fathoms below.


	15. The Awakening, Part II

Luke was in his quarters on the _Executor_ , puzzling through that stupid book Palpatine had given him, when he felt it suddenly lurch into action, the wind picking up to carry them away. He wondered where they were going.

He didn't have to wait very long to find out.

Vader stormed into his quarters, barely stopping long enough to unlock the door in his fury, and slammed what looked like an injured hawk onto the table.

The hawk let out a pathetic mewl. It stared at Luke with big eyes; it seemed just as confused as he was.

Luke rose to his feet, shoving the book aside. "What the—"

" _This_ ," Vader hissed, "is the threat the Empire must deal with. This is what you and your _friends_ are perpetuating."

Luke stared at the bird, still not comprehending. The bird continued to stare back.

"What."

"Your friends have caused widespread disruption and chaos, _destroyed_ an important Imperial asset—"

"Sounds like them," Luke quipped, expecting and revelling in his father's glare.

Vader waved a hand at the hawk on the table. " _This_ is what you are supporting? Needless suffering?"

"Oh, what, like _killing my aunt and uncle_?" Luke snapped back. "What did they even _do_?"

"Your _friends_ have laid waste to an Imperial communications facility. Explosives were planted at the base, and many of the troopers inside were killed. Is _that_ the 'peace' you all claim to believe in so fervently?"

Luke frowned. "An Imperial communications facility? One with the comm hawks? Which one?"

"The main base. Half an hour away from here."

"We're headed there right now?"

"Yes."

"Widespread disruption and chaos." Luke frowned. "How will that affect you?"

"Affect _us_."

"Make it harder to coordinate, right? Harder to _terrorise_ people?"

Vader sucked in a breath. "You dare—"

"Yeah, I do. I do dare. This is a _pathetic_ attempt to demonise the Rebels. A single destroyed base? Of course I'm not happy that all the people inside it died. But if it stops _you_ , I have to wonder how many lives it saves in the process!"

Vader yanked his hand up, ready to strike.

Then he froze.

Luke glared at him, hard. His arm was still in midair, primed to fly at the slightest provocation, but he didn't move.

Luke didn't understand why. He'd hit him before—kicked, shaken, bruised Luke during the fight on Bespin. He'd made it clear he had no particular qualms about hurting Luke. So what was stopping him here?

But he still didn't move.

"I will not be a part of the Empire, _Father_ ," Luke spat. "I don't care what you tell me. You killed my friend; you killed my family; the only person on this damn ship who tried to help me is dead because of you. _I have nothing to say to you_."

"Ahsoka—"

He couldn't continue. After a moment, Vader swallowed. He dropped his fist, and his gaze.

"We will be arriving soon," he said. "I will escort you out on deck to see firsthand what carnage your _friends_ wreak. Then you will see." But the threat sounded hollow.

He made to leave, then paused. Glanced back at Luke. "Ahsoka. . ." he tried again.

"Go!" Luke shook his head. "Just go!"

Vader went.

Tears welled up in his eyes. He'd barely known Ahsoka, didn't know why he was so upset. . . except he did.

She been kind to him—she'd tried to _rescue_ him. And she was dead, because of him.

Because he hadn't had the strength to strike Vader down.

But would she have wanted that in the first place?

 _Why do you stay?_

 _Because I believe there's still good in him. There has to be._

Still good? In _Vader_? Everything in him was rejecting the idea.

Everything in him, except the part reminding him about how Vader had held back just now.

 _Lack of violence towards your son isn't goodness. It's common decency._

But he hadn't known Vader had _any_ decency at all. . . It was a place to start.

But what was he starting?

That small part of him persisted. _Look around the room. If nothing else, he cares about you. Why else would he put you in here instead of a cell?_

 _To try to convince me to join the Empire._

 _What about outside the Imperial Palace?_

Luke blinked. His mind flitted back to that—the sheer _panic_ he'd felt there, how Vader had almost tried to _ground_ him.

 _That means nothing_.

His thoughts dwelled on it for the rest of the trip nonetheless.

* * *

The water was cold and dark, but almost. . . soothing.

Leia was well-aware that Han was finding it significantly more traumatic than her; he kicked upwards violently, breaking the surface with a gasp. He'd moved a little way away, but she could feel the eddies swirl around him as he tried to tread water.

She just closed her eyes and _drifted_.

Breathing wasn't a problem. For some reason, she wasn't breathing, but she didn't _need to_. She felt more alive than she ever had before. The water was as cool as the moonlight had been; she let the currents brush past her, carrying the remains of their impromptu parachute far, far away.

She opened her eyes.

It didn't sting, not like people had always described salt water to. It was pitch dark, but light from the moon and stars cut a little way in. It glanced off the bubbles around her, made her skin glow like moonlight itself.

And although she couldn't see that far out, she could feel a ship approaching. The _Ghost_ , she assumed—and she knew she assumed right when Han was heaved out of the water. She was close to the hull now, still a few feet under water.

She hadn't resurfaced in she didn't know how long. Time seemed liquid.

But they were on a time schedule. With a stream of bubbles replacing what was _meant_ to be a regretful sigh, she kicked for the surface.

The cold didn't fully hit her until her face emerged, and she found herself desperate for oxygen she suddenly lacked. She gasped—then gasped louder when someone grabbed her by the back of her shirt and heaved her onto a ship.

She blinked seawater out of her eyes to stare at Han. In the dim light, he almost looked _concerned_. "Are you _crazy_?"

"What?" She blinked, confused. Then again when he threw his arms round her and crushed her to his chest.

"I thought you were _dead_!"

"Give her space, Solo, we have a blanket to give her," a voice ordered. Belatedly, Leia recognised it as Captain Syndulla. The woman gave her a stern look. "You're lucky to have survived that."

"The fall?"

"The water."

Leia shook her head. "I was never in any danger from the _water_."

She knew she'd said something wrong when they all exchanged looks.

"The water's around freezing," the blue-eyed carpenter boy—Ezra, his name was Ezra—said. "People can die or go unconscious in under fifteen minutes in that."

"But I wasn't even under for that long!" Leia protested, then got nervous when they all exchanged another glance. "How long was I under?"

Hera pinched her lips together. "Hard to tell—we couldn't see you and your parachute very well in the dark. By my estimate—"

"Twenty two minutes."

Leia turned to Han, who hadn't taken his eyes off her.

"I was in there for ten, according to Jarrus." He nodded at Hera's first mate. "I'm lucky to be alive with minimal nerve damage. You were under for twelve minutes more, and that's before you even broke the surface to breathe."

She shook her head again. "It couldn't be, I wasn't under there for. . ." She trailed off. "Wasn't I?"

"It doesn't matter." Hera shook her head. "You're alive, by some miracle. The others are coming down the cliff now, and we have a job to do. We need to pick them up, then get out of here before Vader shows up."

"By the way," Ezra added, "where's Evaan?"

Leia looked away; Han swallowed. She tried to fight the tears stinging her eyes the way the saltwater hadn't.

"I see." Hera shook her head. "A shame, but we need to move." She stood up. "Sabine! Get ready to get close to that cliff!"

"Aye aye, Captain!" There was something playful about the words, a touch of sarcasm.

"Then let's go." Hera eyed the horizon, slowly purpling as dawn drew nearer. "Let's just hope we can get out in time."

* * *

They barely got out in time.

There was a complication as Lokmarcha, Kidi and Chewie came down the cliff—apparently Kidi's rope had snagged on a rock or something, and Chewie had had to cut her free and carry her the rest of the way down. It was tense, looking on.

But Chewie got them both to the bottom intact, and onto the narrow spit of land that they boarded from. But no sooner were they turning to leave, to flee, dawn on the cusp of the horizon, than ships appeared. They ranged out towards the east, backlit by the rising sun.

"It's Vader!" Leia, on watch in the crows' nest, shouted. He'd switched ships, no longer had the _Devastator_ with its crimson sail, but no other ship could be as massive as what they'd heard the _Executor_ described to be.

The reports weren't exaggerated. That thing was _enormous_.

"I see him!" Hera shouted back. Tension wound her voice thin. Everyone on deck was scurrying round, trying to do their part to help, and Leia could only look on. They all seemed like ants from up here.

She closed her eyes. Breathed in the fresh air. Breathed out.

She opened her eyes again to peer at the _Executor_.

Vader was on that ship. In fact, she could almost see him, standing at the prow barking orders, an intimidating figure cut in a jacket the colour of blood. His back was to her.

Vader. Her father. The man who'd stolen her mother's godhood, destroyed Alderaan, kidnapped Luke, butchered and brutalised and _murdered_ —

She glowered at his back. She could see him in more detail now, see that he seemed to be shouting at one person in particular, someone much smaller than him who cowered before him, hidden behind his bulk. She should probably be worried that the wind seemed to be blowing his ship closer to them, but she was too angry to care in that moment. Those were _her_ winds, _her mother's_ winds; how _dare_ he—

Then he turned, and Leia's breath stopped.

That wasn't just a crew member he'd been shouting at. Slight, blond, dressed in a white shirt—that was _Luke_ he was talking to, _Luke_ who was cringing away from him, _Luke_ whose hair he seized, grabbing hold of it and wrenching it so he was forced to look at the _Ghost_ as it tried desperately to escape. . .

"Luke!" she screamed.

Han shouted something at her, probably a reaction to her scream. It was lost to the wind and her own distraction. Her eyes were fixed on her friend—her _brother_ —even as his mouth jerked open in a cry she couldn't hear from up here. His eyes met hers, and her shoulders sagged slightly.

Luke's lips were moving frantically. Praying—did he pray? To which deity? In all the time they'd had, she'd never thought to ask—or maybe just pleading with Vader for mercy. Mercy for her, or mercy for him. She wasn't sure which.

Then she snorted.

It was Luke.

Luke, who'd charged at a burning ship because there might be someone who needed saving. Who'd snuck off to certain death or capture to save a friend.

She knew exactly which.

 _No_ — Luke, _Luke, no_ —

She wasn't sure which of them it was who accidentally summoned the gust of wind that came next, filling the _Ghost_ 's sails and sending them shooting towards a horizon that had never seemed more welcoming.

Cheers sounded from below her; she could almost _feel_ the curious look Han was giving her. But she remained where she was, half-hanging out of the basket, as she watched Vader's shrinking face crumple into rage and he whirled on Luke, jabbing a finger in his face. She half expected him to strike him.

He didn't. But whatever he said made Luke pale beyond the colour of a cloud, and she had a bad feeling about this.

She stayed up in the crows' nest until long after the _Executor_ was out of sight.

* * *

"You helped them escape."

There was murder in his father's voice; Luke yanked him and his hair out of his grip to glower up at him. "I did no such—"

"You did. You used the winds to help them gain the advantage."

"I dunno how to use whatever _power_ you say I have! How could I have done that?" The words were a front, though. Luke couldn't deny the pressure he'd felt building in his gut when he saw Leia on board, the violent release from when the winds flew free. But surely, that couldn't be. . .

But he remembered Ben, on the _Falcon_ on the way to Alderaan. The thread between him and that creature.

Leia. She was his twin sister. If he had these so-called _powers_ , she must as well. And she'd actually _met_ their mother—she must have been taught something by her, _anything_. It was the only explanation that made sense.

It couldn't have been Luke. It just. . . it couldn't have.

He was just Luke.

Vader's scrutinising gaze had turned suspicious.

No. No—if he realised it wasn't Luke who'd done that, he'd suspect someone else had. Someone aboard that ship, someone with the Rebellion. . .

No. He couldn't expose Leia for that.

"I wasn't about to let you get them!" he defended instead. It wasn't a confession, but it certainly implied his guilt and Vader clearly took it as such. His father raised his hand to strike—

And, just as he had the other day, lowered it again after a moment.

"Your _mercy_ will cost your friends more in the long run, _boy_ ," he hissed. "And I'm not sure you fully understand the _consequences_ of defying me. This facility lies in ruins, but that same ruin will be revisited upon Rebels and Rebel sympathisers a hundredfold. If you don't believe me, perhaps I should choose a suitable target to remind you of the power I wield."

Luke raised his chin with a bravado he didn't feel. He wasn't about to back down now. "What _suitable target_? You don't know of any Rebel towns or countries; if you did, you would've destroyed them long ago."

"Not if I didn't know of them _long ago_ ," Vader parried. His tone was almost sweet. "Not if it was you and your friends, seeking shelter, who led me to discover their Rebel sympathies in the first place."

Luke was puzzled for a moment, then grew cold. Alderaan was already destroyed, so that meant—

"Captain Piett!" Vader barked. The captain snapped to attention. "Inform the fleet. We are to set course for Bespin."

Luke paled. " _No_ —"

"And when we get there," Vader continued louder, over his protests, "we shall _raze it to the ground_."

"No! No, no, _no_ —"

Vader turned to stride away; Luke lunged forward and seized his father's arm. He was shaken off harshly, but he clung on. "No, _please_ , don't, they don't—" He try to get breath in; he was choking. " _Please_ , Father—"

An elbow caught him in the chest. Winded, Luke fell back, even as he saw Vader glancing around sharply to ensure no one had overheard.

Then he leaned down, until his face was inches from Luke's.

"Know that this is your fault, Skywalker. Remember that now, remember it later, and _remember it when that island burns_. Defiance leads to more suffering. If only you and the rest of your insignificant Rebellion would remember that, there would be peace."

"And the Empire would thrive," Luke said bitterly.

"Exactly."

Luke closed his eyes. He would remember it, alright.

It was the only thing on his mind when Vader locked him back in his quarters for the trip.

But when they arrived at Bespin, and Luke was glued to the porthole, trying desperately to catch a glimpse of the island he'd doomed. . . there was nothing.

He saw no smoke. He heard no screams.

When Vader returned later on, he was subdued. He'd been subdued for most of the trip there, actually, Luke remembered. He'd avoided Luke like the plague.

Luke lifted his chin when Vader finally stepped through his door, still expecting to see blood on his hands—metaphorically or literally. But there was none.

His sword was clean.

Vader said, "Calrissian has been removed from power, and an Imperial representative has been appointed to oversee Bespin's trade. They are a part of the Empire now. You will never be able to seek refuge there again."

The words sounded oddly hollow— _everything_ about Vader's bearing seemed hollow.

"But," Luke asked, "they're alive?"

Vader stiffened, then nodded. "Yes."

"No burning? No razing the city to the ground? No salting their fields?"

"None, young one."

"So it was an empty threat?" Luke couldn't quite comprehend this. "It— it was a _bluff_?" His tone sounded almost accusatory.

"I do not _bluff_." Vader sounded insulted. "I simply made a judgement in haste, and I was in error. I—" He paused. He looked like he had to force the words out of his mouth as he said, "I'm sorry."

Luke's mouth hung open. He didn't know what to say.

"I—"

 _I forgive you._

No. He didn't.

"Okay."

Vader met his eye again. There was an awkward nod, and he turned to leave the room.

* * *

The _Ghost_ limped back into the harbour at Naboo three weeks later.

They'd taken longer than usual—concerned about being followed by Imperials, they'd taken a meandering course, and it'd cost them a week. It was growing colder by the time they finally came into dock, the autumn beginning to sink its teeth into the world

Leia was leaning against the side of the ship, chin propped up on the edge as the trees lining the river bank swayed past them. She wasn't on the side that faced the jetty, and she wasn't required to help with tying the ship up, so she didn't move when she felt them come to a halt. She didn't _want_ to move.

The truth was that despite Han doing his utmost to distract her during the trip back, she felt. . . empty. Had for a while now.

Evaan, Luke, _Vader_ —

She watched the river water run past, slightly greener than the sea it was headed to. She wondered about what it meant that her mother had set up next to a river, rather than the sea. Did it count? Did she—and, therefore, Vader—still get magic from it, or however this all worked? Or was that the point of holing up here, that if it came down to a fight here, Vader would be as powerless as the woman whose magic he'd stolen?

She didn't know. A part of her registered that she didn't care, and that it was just a distraction from things she _really_ didn't want to think about.

As she watched, a small schooner drifted downriver. The woman standing at the front smiled at her as she drifted past. She looked a little bit like Padmé.

Leia half-heartedly smiled back.

Then she heard the voice.

She couldn't hear the words exactly—they muddled with all the others said on the crowded jetty. But she recognised the timbre, the sound of the voice, just as she did the voice answering it. Han.

But the first voice. . .

She turned, and finally dismounted down the gangplank. The sun was brighter here than at the back of the ship, and she felt slightly dazed as she glanced around. Then her gaze alighted on the person she was looking for.

Chewie, as always, stuck out of the crowd pretty noticeably. She spotted him first. On his left stood Han, his expression uncharacteristically grave. And standing talking to them. . .

She took a step forward. " _Lando_?"

"Hello, Leia." He looked terrible. His clothes were mussed up—he looked like he'd been wearing them for two weeks straight—and there were dark shadows under his eyes. He tried to smile upon seeing her, but it was lacklustre and forced.

"What happened to you? What are you doing here? How did you know where we were?"

Chewie said something, sounding concerned, but Lando waved off his concern. "It's alright, Chewbacca, I can tell it again." Then, to Leia: "You don't look too good yourself."

"Mission," she got out tersely. "Lost a friend."

"Heard you saw your brother again," he said sympathetically. He shook his head. "Leia, I'm still sorry about what happened on Bespin, I never thought he would've—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"As you wish."

She tried to violently untangle the knot that had pulled tight in her chest. "So, what happened to you?"

Lando grimaced for a moment, then said carefully, "Han here tells me you just got out of a sticky situation with Vader's new flagship."

Leia nodded. "The _Executor_."

"The _Executor_ , right. What was that, three weeks ago?"

"Thereabouts."

"'Cause my little outpost was attacked about a week after that, by that very same ship."

Leia stared for a moment, uncomprehending. "Coruscant to Bespin is about a week's trip, they would've had to sail immediately—"

"Exactly," Han said. "Bespin got handed over to the Empire. Lando and his buddies who came with him escaped, but now it's another Imperial base. We think. . ." He didn't seem able to bring himself to say it.

But Leia understood. "You think that our attack led him to you in retribution?"

Lando's voice was tight as he said, "It's possible."

"Lando, I—" She looked down. "I'm so sorry."

He shook his head. "Don't be. It— it wasn't your fault. You didn't make a secret of the fact you were on the run from the Empire. I knew what I was getting into." He sighed. "I'm just worried about all my men, most of them weren't exactly on good terms with the Emperor before, either."

"But how did you get _here_?"

Amusement briefly eclipsed the sorrow on his face. "You and your brother weren't exactly subtle. I heard you mention Naboo quite a few times while you were with us. I figured it was as good a place to start as any." He paused, then added. "Your mother's been very welcoming."

"Yeah," Leia said. "She's like that."

There was a loud yapping.

Leia blinked, and turned around—barrelling towards her again was Artoo. She found she couldn't stifle a smile as he bounded round her legs, especially as Threepio came flapping after him, scandalised. She wasn't surprised when Padmé followed on shortly after—those two seemed surgically attached to her. Wherever she went, they went.

"Leia," she greeted first, warmly. "Han, Chewie. I see you've already found Lando."

Lando turned a charming grin on her. "We've been having a lovely discussion, in fact, ma'am. And might I just say, you look absolutely lovely today."

Padmé seemed caught between smiling and rolling her eyes—it was clear that they'd already established some sort of joking, flattering dynamic between them. "Thank you, Lando."

"No, really," he insisted, "you would put a _goddess_ to shame."

Han actually snorted at that; Leia had to hide her smile behind her hand.

 _Does he know?_ she mouthed at Padmé. She got a minute shake of the head in response, and grinned. It wasn't exactly a secret; she hoped Lando found out soon.

Padmé shook her head, and turned to Leia. "To get back to business, I hear your mission was a success?"

"Yes," Leia said, "but. . . we lost someone on it."

Padmé's lips pinched together. "I see. That's. . ." She sighed. "That's a shame. But it succeeded, so I'm sure that the dead—"

"Evaan."

"— _Evaan_ ," Padmé corrected herself, looking stricken, "would take comfort in that."

Leia nodded. "Yeah," she said slowly. "She would."


	16. The Awakening, Part III

Vader had picked up a routine of visiting Luke every day, at the exact same time. That was when his duties lulled enough that he had the time to. That was when he could go in, and—

And what? Get shouted at some more?

But he went anyway. He needed to. Because at the end of the day, Luke was his son, and. . .

He paused when the door clicked open, and he got a glimpse of him, sat on the bed, watching. He was incredibly pale.

Of course he was, Vader berated himself. He'd been locked in a room for weeks on end; while the remnants of a Tatooine native's tan and a blacksmith's ruddy cheeks lingered, he'd lost a lot of colour. And with such little sun making it through his tiny porthole. . .

. . .was this healthy?

The thought struck him suddenly; he found he couldn't dispel it. Worry built in his chest. Sunlight was supposed to be good for people, wasn't it? Especially children. Not that Luke was a _child_ —he'd missed _so much_ —but he was still eighteen, he might still be growing and developing. . .

Carefully, he said, "Would you like to walk with me on the deck?"

Luke's glare softened into bewilderment. But he glanced around the room, looking restless. His eyes lingered on the porthole as he jumped to his feet. "Yes," he said determinedly. "I would."

Vader hesitated for a moment, eyeing Luke up and down, wondering what his crew would think that he let a prisoner roam free on his ship. . . then decided he didn't care. Luke was to be the future Emperor, once he came to his senses. The sooner they stopping scorning him and started serving, the better.

He placed a hand on his shoulder to guide him out the door, but he couldn't help but tighten his grip. _We are on a boat in the middle of the sea. There is nowhere for him to escape to._ "Come, then. I can show you the workings of a warship; it's information you'll need, one day."

Luke scowled fiercely, but allow himself to be led out.

The tour went smoothly enough at first. Vader decided it might be tactful to skip the brig, but he saw the crew's deckhouse, the pantry, the galley, the carpenter's shop. It was a large warship. All in all, it was a while before they finally made it onto the deck.

The moment Luke stepped into the sun, he paused. Then he tilted his head back and closed his eyes. The sunlight played across his face.

Something clenched in Vader's chest, watching him. The aristocratic features, the dull skin lit to luminescence, the thick lock of hair across his forehead. He could see Padmé in him. He could see himself in him.

This was their son.

Luke opened his eyes again, breaking the moment. Those eyes—bluer than the sea, than the sky, than Padmé's dress on the day it had all gone wrong—scanned the deck. He took everything in with the air of someone seeing the world for the first time.

Loathe as he was to interrupt the experience, deckhands were starting to stare. He touched Luke's arm with more force than he'd intended; Luke jerked away, blinking sharply.

Vader just tilted his head forward, and tried to speak through the knot in his throat. "Come."

The tour continued again in a relatively civilised fashion. As unenthused as Luke pretended to be, no doubt as part of his ill-advised rebellion, he was clearly genuinely interested in everything Vader said. When Piett had to explain the finer points of navigation to him, he soaked it up like a sponge; when he got to help push the capstan round along with the rest of the crew, he found it difficult to stay in his shell; when Vader even let him steer the ship for a little bit, he practically _vibrated_ with excitement. As the afternoon went on, Vader even saw him smile.

Then came the cannons.

They weren't even in the room they were fired from—Vader had considered it, then decided such an overt show of the force the Empire wielded might be a little. . . heavy-handed. His Master would disapprove. He was trying to be tactful.

But he was careless anyway, and when they paused to lean against the side of the ship, peering down into the water moving past below, he gestured at the closed hatches and mentioned, "That's where the cannons fire through, in times of battle."

Instantly, Luke tensed up. Even if those cannon had never actually been brought to bear against him, he eyed the hatches almost nervously.

"I see," he said quietly, "and how far can then fire?"

"Further than any other cannon," Vader informed him. His tone had gone cold at the implication. "Your _friends_ were simply out of range, at the communications facility." They hadn't been, not yet—he didn't know why he hadn't fired on them. Just a few dozen more Rebels lost to his sea; what would have been the harm?

But he didn't tell Luke that.

Unfortunately, his son didn't seem to need the information told to him into order to deduce it for himself. "Don't lie to me, Father."

Every other time, Vader was thrilled at hearing that title used on him. Now it was used as some sort of weapon.

The thought angered him. How _dare_ Luke use their relationship against him? He glanced over his shoulder to check no one had heard, then turned back, anger boiling over. How _dare_ he—

 _Like you did?_ a voice that sounded suspiciously like Obi-Wan, like Padmé—no, like thrice-damned _Ahsoka_ —said in his ear. _You, who justified your torture with it, who justified killing?_

 _Who told him the truth when you did only to break him into obedience?_

 _Who, even now, has privateers hunting his friends_ — _provided they're not_ dead— _in order to cow him into submission?_

There was a rumble of distant thunder; murmurings of fear and wonder—including _Luke's_ fear and wonder—washed over him. It had been perfectly clear earlier.

He ignored the violent rainclouds overhead, the gales whipping them into a storm, and jabbed a finger into Luke's face.

"You will speak to me with the respect I deserve, _young one_ ," he hissed, "or you will not speak to me at all."

The deck was rolling underneath them now, the sea whipped into a frenzy, but Vader _didn't care_ —

Whatever tentative truce had been between them earlier was gone now. It had danced in the sun but dissolved in the rain. Luke damn near _snarled_ at him, something as feral as fear behind his eyes.

He lifted his chin and spat, "I do speak to you with the respect you deserve."

" _You_ —"

They were both thrown against the side as the ship hit a massive wave; spray wrapped round them, smothering them both. Whatever else Vader had been about to say was lost to violent hacking.

So he lifted his head to say something else.

Only to freeze.

Luke was standing with his hand a little way out, touching the spray like a favoured wind chime, falling ashes. He looked bewildered, confused and. . . _lost_.

They hit another wave. The ship bucked, Vader was sent teetering back on his heels, but Luke stayed steady. Now Vader was watching for it, he could see him moving _with_ the ship, like two partners in a dance no one else knew.

He turned his head to look out to sea.

Vader's breathing stopped.

Because _that_ was familiar. He remembered all too well how Padmé, would stand like that, gazing at the horizon, as much a part of the scenery as the sea or sky. She'd always spoken of it with a longing that made him—on behalf of the entire human race—feel inadequate; that sense, she said, of home. Of childhood, of comfort and warmth and _safety_. The sea gave her that, as dangerous as it was to everyone else. Wild and free.

Vader lurched forward. No—no, he'd already lost _her_ to that attachment, that _favouritism_ , he wouldn't lose _him_ too—

But he'd wasted too much time. Too much time spent staring, comparing—the ruffle of the hair, the curve of the nose, the delicacy of the expression. When he grabbed at him, he found nothing but water; Luke, entranced, had already jumped.

The last drops of spray rained down around him.

And below him, in the stormy grey-green sea, a splash sounded.

* * *

Luke hit the water and felt peace.

He was almost tempted to shout out for his aunt—Beru, the only other person he'd ever felt such love from. As he sank, further and further, he felt. . . he didn't know how to describe it. It was warm, motherly; it felt like coming home.

But he knew that wasn't what this was.

He exhaled slowly, some part of his mind still rational enough to marvel at how he was doing that underwater. The bubbles streamed out in front of him, glittering. He was drifting in a blue so dark it was nearly black—the same colour, some part of him registered, as the ink in the letters that had once been his lifeline. . .

He could visualise the name at the end of those letters; this place recalled it, had the same _energy_ as it. But _Naberrie_ was replaced by something else in his mind: _Amidala_.

 _Padmé Amidala._

She'd never mentioned it in her letters, but he could see how she would write _Amidala_ regardless. He knew her handwriting intrinsically. He could see it now: the lines of the _A_ sloping inwards, the scribble of the _M_ , the loop of the _L_. He knew her writing in the way he didn't know her.

As he might never know her.

This was all he had. This feeling the water gave him, and the letters that had burned away with the rest of his home. It was hard not to be resentful. He _wanted_ to be resentful.

But he didn't know who to blame.

Vader? Perhaps. Probably.

But. . .

He could blame Vader for Alderaan. For Biggs. For Ahsoka. But every time he tried to imagine what might have been if his father had made _different_ choices, _better_ choices, he hit a wall. Every time, he was flung back to that first conversation he'd fully had with him, about everything, and how _bitter_ his father had been. How _melancholy._

Luke did not want to be the second coming of his father. He didn't want to be caught up on resentment for the rest of his life.

There was a whisper, then, and he felt it. _Leia_.

An echo of her presence—she'd been here, or in a similar situation, and recently. It was just an echo, but it was more than he'd had of her in weeks.

Before that, years.

He exhaled again. The bubbles danced upwards.

If he stretched out his senses, he began to. . . feel things. He could sense the largest creatures imaginable patrolling the fathoms below, as ancient and mysterious as the _cirein-cròin_ he'd calmed on the trip to Alderaan with Ben, so long ago. Months, even. And by then he'd already seen death.

 _Death. . ._

He tilted his head back, to peer at the rippling, receding light on the surface. He could see the shadow of the ship, and. . . sense it, to an extent. A place where alien life, life not of the sea, resided. Except for one small point, about the size of his father's japor snippet. It moved back and forth on the deck, pacing in the same pattern he'd noticed that Vader used—perhaps it _was_ the japor snippet. It sent waves of familiar power into the water, as warm and familiar as the sea but _wrong_. Artificial.

 _I am Amidala_ , it said, although it clearly wasn't. _You will obey me. Bring him back._

 _Bring him back._

 _Bring him back._

The current stirred around him at the words, starting to stir him gently and _bring him back_ , but. . . it was unnatural. Stilted. As insentient as the sea was, it was clearly doing its utmost to resist the order. This sort of control was fake, wrong, unnatural. There was that word again. _Unnatural._

You couldn't change the sea. It changed itself. It was as ephemeral as the moon, and to try and keep it in one form would be to disrespect all its forms in its entirety. Some people _fit_ with it. The Jedi had fit with it, worked with it, and fought to keep the humans and the oceans living in harmony.

The sea didn't like to be restrained. You adapted to its nature; you did not change it.

But Vader did.

Vader spat in its face and forced it to do his bidding. Never mind that its only mistress was gone, lost to that same man. Never mind that it was killing the oceans. Never mind that Alderaan and Tatooine and all those other lands were starving.

Because that was it, he was starting to realise, as he sank until the ship was almost out of sight. All those fish shortages on Alderaan, the failing trade and deficits, the people starving. . . It was because of Vader.

It was all because of Vader.

Vader was killing the seas. And in a continent of islands, where nearly every culture _relied_ on the sea. . . he was killing his own Empire, too.

He _was_ the Empire. The Empire was killing _itself_ in order to stay intact.

It felt like it confirmed something he'd known for a long time. He'd always gone hungry on Tatooine, but they were a poor island, a poor colony; poverty was practically guaranteed. Leia's words about the state of Alderaan had been the ones to raise the question, and now everything seemed to click into place.

He was into the deepest fathoms by now. He didn't feel pressure, or the terror of drowning; he assumed it was his mother protecting him from all that. The tugging currents had died down a while ago. It appeared that Vader's influence— _human_ influence—only extended so deep.

So it wasn't that surprising that the creatures of the sea which had all but vanished from the surface would come to greet him down there.

He sensed only curiosity from them—and when they got closer, awe. There were three in total; he might not be able to _see_ , with no light penetrating this far, but he could feel the grace of their movements. One particularly curious one came right up to him. He reached out a hand and touched what felt suspiciously like a horse's head, warm and steady against the freezing water. Whatever it was nuzzled him lightly.

 _Small one,_ it spoke without speaking. _Small goddess._

If Luke was feeling more cynical, he might snort at the _goddess_. But he wasn't. He just smiled, as gently as he ever had.

 _Friend,_ he greeted.

It nuzzled him more firmly, more affectionately, but there was something hesitant about the gesture as well.

 _You'll have to go back,_ it said reluctantly. _Won't you?_

 _You need to go back. You're needed up there._

No, he almost said, no, I want to stay down here. But he knew the truth.

He needed to go back. He needed to talk to his father, he needed to—

He needed to save him.

The thought brought him to a halt. To _save_ him?

This entire epiphany had been about how everything he did was intrinsically _wrong_ ; how Luke needed to stop his destructive ways before it was too late.

Vader was too obsessed with control. What had he said about his mother, about when she was pregnant with him and Leia? _I was always worried she would never come back._ He hadn't trusted his loved ones not to leave him, and it had led to him committing acts that drove them away.

Luke could blame him for that. Luke could resent him for that. But he also felt sorry for him for that.

It all came out of a place of love. And that was a dangerous line to walk, because evil is still evil, no matter why it's done. But it came out of love. His father was not intrinsically bad.

And he still cared about Luke. He still wanted him by his side. He tried to control him the way he did the sea. Because if that was how he treated _one_ thing he loved—and Luke very much doubted the man who'd married the Goddess of the Sea didn't love the realm she represented—then of course that extrapolated out to the other things. He didn't want to hurt or kill any of them.

If Luke could convince him to change, to _let go_. . .

Quietly, he said aloud, "There is still good in him."

There was no air down here. The only thing that carried the words was water, leaving the meaning jumbled and garbled. But the creature picked up on his meaning anyway.

 _Are you sure?_

He closed his eyes, even if he couldn't see anything anyway. _I am._

 _Why?_

 _Because. . ._ His lips quirked up in a slightly bitter smile. _Because when I had the chance to kill him, Ahsoka died because I didn't. If the chance came again, I know I would make the same choice. So there had damn well better be good still in him._

 _Ahsoka believed it._ I _believe it. Otherwise she died for nothing._

He still couldn't see anything. But he could feel the creature almost smiling at him nonetheless. _So you know what you have to do?_

 _Yes,_ he breathed out, opening his eyes again. He glanced up at the surface. _Could you_ —

 _Of course, little prince._ The creature butted forward, until Luke ran his hand along what felt like a horse's mane. _Hop on._

Luke hesitated for the briefest second, remembering legends of kelpies who enticed victims onto their backs only to drag them into the depths. But he was already in the depths.

He swung his leg over the creature's back. It still felt like riding a horse, he mused, racking distant memories of that one time Biggs's father had let the boys ride the stallions in his stables. But it wasn't _just_ a horse: there was something behind him, something that _kicked_ , and—

They surged up like a geyser—so fast Luke felt the water heating around them. The light bloomed above them as they neared the surface, the alien presences of the humans on board rushing into his consciousness as well as his father, who suddenly stopped his pacing to peer over the side, as if he knew something was about to happen—

And they broke the surface with a magnificent leap.

Vader's relief cleared out the storm clouds; sunlight pierced the droplets flying around them, rainbows scattering from the water, along the scales on the fish tail. . .

And the hippocampus Luke was riding on let out a loud neigh, and Luke whooped in sheer delight, unable to stop a smile from splitting his face in two.

The smile lingered long after he'd been fished out of the water.

* * *

Leia had faked being alright for the whole day. Debriefing about the mission, talking to Lando, smiling and cooing at Threepio and Artoo. . . she'd gritted her teeth and bore it. She was a governor's niece; faking niceties was her speciality.

But when she got back to the room she shared with Han, she just sighed. She didn't have the energy to do anything.

Everything was going wrong. _Everything_. Alderaan, Luke, Evaan, Lando—who would be next on the list of tragedies? Who would be the next for her to fail?

There was a small balcony adjoined to her room; she pulled open the rusty doors and leaned against the honey stone.

Night was falling, the sky violet in the twilight. She could hear the shouts of the Rebels celebrating below—it _had_ been an important victory—but couldn't bring herself to go down and join them. She was tired.

 _Luke_ , she thought. _Luke, where are you?_

He'd staved off the grief over Alderaan, in those weeks on the _Falcon_. He'd been the brother she'd always wanted.

And now he was gone.

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she fiercely blinked them back. No. _No_ —she would not cry. She _would not cry_ —

The door creaked open behind her.

She tensed, keeping her face pointed away, but Han's heavy footfalls never came. Nor was it Chewie's lumbering gait, or Lando's stroll. Instead, the footsteps were clipped, determined—but faltered at the sight of Leia's back.

"Leia," Padmé said, "what's wrong?"

Leia blinked again. Her voice was forcibly steady as she said, "Nothing. I'm just grieving for Bespin. And Evaan."

"And Luke," Padmé guessed.

"And Luke."

Padmé put a hand on her shoulder. "You know it wasn't your fault he was taken?"

"I know," she lied. Padmé seemed to sense it—somehow. In some way.

"He's safe," she told her. "At least. . . he's well. A hippocampus dropped by just now, and reported that one of their own interacted with him. He's no worse for the wear."

It was a testament to everything she'd dealt with in the past few months that Leia thought nothing of the sheer _oddity_ of that sentence.

"He had an epiphany, in fact," Padmé went on. "Similar, I hear, to what you did." Leia didn't reply, and she pressed, "Captain Syndulla reported you were underwater for twenty two minutes, before coming up?"

"I was."

"How did it feel?"

Leia didn't flinch at that strange question, either.

"Powerful," she said after a moment. "It felt. . . powerful." She closed her eyes against another onslaught of tears. "How can you not hate him?"

"Hate whom?" Padmé's thumb was brushing across her shoulder now, small circular motions. It was relaxing.

"Vader," Leia said. Who else? "He's a monster. He's razed and burned and pillaged. And he took— he took all _that_ from you. The sea, the power, the _belonging_. How can you not hate him?"

Padmé was silent.

"It's. . . complicated," she finally admitted. "But humans always are, I've found. I love Anakin. I hate Vader. Everything would be so much easier if I could separate them into two different people, but they're _not_ two different people. He's one man. And I both love _and_ hate him." Leia turned her head to catch her fleetingly wry smile. "I've had eighteen years to deal with it. Don't you worry about me."

Leia just nodded quietly.

Beyond the balcony, night had fallen completely. There was a quiet cry, then a starbird flashed past, chased by a pale brown bird. Leia squinted. It looked almost like—

"That's Morai," Padmé confirmed. "A convor. She tells me you freed her at the Rebel outpost?"

"Yes," Leia confirmed, mind flitting back. She could still see the convor's eyes, large and liquid, boring into her. "You can talk to convor's now?"

"If needs must." Her voice was almost amused.

"What was Morai doing in that tower?"

"She used to work with Ahsoka as a spy." Padmé nodded to the starbird who was with her. "She continued spying even after delivering Ahsoka's last message, and got caught attacking the comm hawks at the facility. She was locked up to prevent her from repeating the offence."

"That doesn't seem like standard Imperial protocol."

"Some Imperials are merciful."

Leia muttered, "They're still Imperials."

Padmé just spread a hand against her back again, and that silent support was all she needed. The contact sparked something in her, a familiarity, a _belonging_.

"Can you teach me?" she blurted out.

"Teach you what?"

"This power I have. Can you teach me how to control it?"

"Of _course_." Padmé's voice was still calm, but there was no denying the eagerness in it. "Would you like to start tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"Then I'll have it ready for tomorrow," she decided. "And then—"

The door opened again.

This time, it _was_ Han's heavy footfalls that entered—then hesitated. Leia glanced over her shoulder at him, and their eyes met.

Padmé said quietly, "I can come back tomorrow morning, to discuss it further?"

Leia nodded.

Padmé made to leave, smiling at Han on her way out, but his attention was fixed on Leia. She met his gaze unflinching.

"So, uh. . ." He scratched the back of his neck. "You're feeling better now?"

"Yes."

"Good. I, um, I'm sorry I shouted at you before."

Leia blinked. "It's alright." They'd both been tense, stressed. It wasn't unreasonable.

Then he blurted out, "You know I'm not just here for the kid, right?"

She smiled at him, and he looked away.

"I know."

* * *

"Mistress Padmé! I'm afraid Artoo's gone and gotten himself into a whole _mess_ of trouble again! You see, he was in the kitchens, and—"

"It's alright, Threepio," Padmé said tiredly, collapsing into the chair next to her bed. The bird fluttered onto her shoulder, and she stroked his yellow feathers gently. "I'm sure whoever he knocked over this time could handle it."

"I dearly hope so, miss. I suppose you're right, and— oh! You'll be looking to go to bed, now."

"Yes, Threepio. You can go."

"I couldn't possibly! But I suppose, if you insist, I could go and fly with the other birds for a while. . ."

She smiled, a little sadly. "I'm sure that would be nice, Threepio. I'll see you in the morning." She reached up behind her to slide the window open.

"I certainly will, Mistress Padmé!" He spread his wings and soared out of the window. The night swallowed even his bright feathers within moments.

She closed the window and let out a sigh.

Then she began to cry.

It had been a struggle not to earlier that evening, when she'd been comforting Leia. Her daughter had been so on the verge of tears herself. But Padmé weeping in sympathy would not help, so she'd bottled them.

The cap rolled off that bottle now.

It felt like it had been forever since she'd cried. And in the interim, there had been a _lot_ to cry about. The destruction of the Jedi, her warriors. The loss of her powers. The slow growth of the Empire and its crimes, the slow death of the sea. The pain of pregnancy and loss of her children, sending them away until she missed their entire childhoods save by letter. Obi-Wan. Alderaan. Ahsoka.

And Anakin.

Always, always Anakin.

She hated Palpatine for turning him against her. She hated him for using them to expand his domain. And yet she still mourned what she'd sent Duja to do. If only for the pain she knew it would cause Anakin, she cried.

Her Anakin. Her brave, beautiful Anakin, who held too tightly to the things he loved and then wondered how he had managed to drown them.

She cried long into the night.


	17. The Endgame

A stiff breeze seeped in through the porthole to rustle the pages of the book he was reading, but Luke paid it no mind.

When he smelt smoke on the wind, he scowled again, but kept reading. A sudden flurry of small Rebel attacks in the area had sprung up recently, and Vader had sent the fleet scurrying back and forth to quench them.

Days had passed. By now, he was used to the smoke.

He didn't want to consider it—and he had other things to think about, anyway.

That thick tome Palpatine had ordered him to read was dry, indirect and prejudiced, but it was the only text Luke had ever got his hands on with mere _mentions_ of the Jedi in it.

Those mentions _did_ , admittedly, simply serve to demonise them. But oddly enough, Amidala wasn't tarred with the same brush. The claims put forth by the—odiously pro-Imperial—author were that the Jedi had _forsaken_ the goddess, and been committing crimes against their own moral code until _"They themselves were the very thing they once sought to destroy."_

Luke was almost surprised. He knew that the Empire claimed it had attacked and outlawed the Jedi because they were criminals. It was on all Imperial history curriculums, but that was all there _was_ on them. They were written as a minor footnote in the rise of the glorious Empire, no matter how prominent they were in people's hearts. Why focus on one random mercenary sect, Luke's teachers would reply when queried, if their importance was so tiny?

That was one battle. The Coruscanti Empire hadn't started expanding properly until at least a _year_ after that.

The repression had been violent and effective. Luke knew many people on Tatooine had thought the Jedi myths and legends; they would have scoffed at Ben's claims that they were vital in the growth of trade and diplomacy. No one commented that the countries had fallen to Coruscant's might suspiciously easily without them, even _before_ taking the supernatural elements of each of Vader's battles into account. If they _did_ voice it, they would be pointed to the nearest Imperial-approved text and _proven wrong_.

Even Aunt Beru would sometimes admit that she wasn't sure which of her memories were fact and which were fiction anymore.

But Luke had been raised by Owen Lars; at least _some_ of his uncle's intense scepticism had rubbed off on him. So he scowled at the book, and debated for the seventeenth time whether or not he should throw it out the porthole.

 _The Jedi_ , it claimed, _were a violent band of mercenaries whom sailors' myths have deified beyond a scrap of truth. When their grievances against Coruscant and its allies became too vile to allow, they were destroyed in a vicious battle where many good men lost their lives. Once the main fleet was obliterated, they were naturally outlawed in every area of the growing Empire and today many believe they have been wiped out entirely. Our great leader, Emperor Palpatine, has said_ —

Luke slammed the book shut.

After that, it was just mindless drivel about Palpatine's _goodness_ , how the sun shone out of his behind, and Luke really was _not in the mood_ to read—

There was a thudding outside his door. A rhythmic thudding—footsteps that made two distinct sounds. One from a foot, and one from a wooden leg.

He was not surprised when his father unlocked the door and staggered in.

He looked terrible—his face was ghost-white, and his hair had torn free of his usual ponytail to hang around his face in matted curls.

"The Emperor," he said, "is dead."

Luke's eyes blew wide. His first instinct was to cry out with joy—then he told himself sternly that death was a sad thing, and it was rude to feel that way. Even if the dead person happened to have been the most disgusting organism to ever walk the earth.

And his father was upset about it.

How was he supposed to find the good in his father, when he couldn't even show good in himself?

He wasn't sure which of them was more surprised when he stood up, walked across the room, and hugged him.

* * *

They'd all been summoned onto the Rebellion's flagship—Ackbar's _Home One_ —during breakfast that morning. Looking around, Leia found it almost disheartening how few of them were there. _This is the_ entire _Rebellion, squeezed onto the deck of this one ship?_

It was a lot of people to squeeze onto a fairly large ship, to be fair. Leia kept knocking elbows with others, the part of her that still acted like a governor's niece apologising profusely to people who didn't care. The noonday sun was hot on the back of her neck; she was starting to feel woozy from the heat. But she forced herself upright when she saw Padmé.

Her mother had mounted the steps at the helm, and stood looking over them. The sunlight twinkled off threads of grey in her hair Leia had never noticed before, highlighting her very human form. Even so, limned in sunlight, silhouetted against the sky, she'd never seemed more ethereal.

"We have a chance to strike a crippling blow to the Empire," she said. Her voice was loud and fervent—Leia got the sense she could convince anyone to do anything, that half the Rebels here were here for _her_ and her alone.

Even so, someone shouted, "Why now?"

Padmé took a breath. "Because the Emperor is dead."

Stunned silence met the declaration.

Then there were _cheers_.

Leia's hands surged to cover her ears, but she couldn't help grinning—the joy surrounding her was infectious. Next to her, Han even smiled a little. Chewie roared his elation.

The cacophony didn't die down for several minutes. Not until Padmé raised her hand, and the people quieted.

It was another minute before everything was fully quiet, but Padmé didn't wait for silence. The moment it was quiet enough for everyone to hear, she kept speaking.

"We have planned a mission," she continued, voice clear and firm, "that may risk everything and everyone in this Rebellion. I understand if you want to back out. No one will judge you for it, and we hope you will be waiting here on Naboo for us once we return. But it will be dangerous, and I don't want anyone to pledge themselves to anything before they understand just how dangerous it is."

Murmurs broke out across the crowd again—dangerous? What was she planning? Why was this any different to any of the other missions they'd been on?

"The Emperor is dead," Padmé repeated, "and the knockout of the Imperial facility at Coruscant meant that their communications are slow. Ours are not. We received this news before even Vader did, and we have been preparing in kind. He was last seen near Bespin, quashing miniature uprisings in that sector that we've orchestrated to keep his attention off of Coruscant, and off of us. If we sail this evening, we can reach the Core before him, and then we can ambush them.

"You understand why I said this would be dangerous. Some of you," she glanced at Leia and Han, "have been ambushed yourselves in the very pass we're intending to lay our trap in—you know it's an effective terrain for such things. But this is going to be a bloodbath anyway. Vader's fleet is immense: on a single ship, he might have more people than we have in our entire Rebellion. If you do not want to come, no one will judge you. But I believe we can win." She lifted her chin. "And I believe this will begin the collapse of the Coruscanti Empire."

Another cheer went up at her words. Padmé didn't exactly smile, but it was closest thing to it. She caught Leia's gaze in the crowd, then strode off the helm and sank into the crowd.

Everyone was buzzing around her, and Leia was buzzing too—of _course_ she was, she _hated_ the Empire, she'd _always_ hated the Empire. But one thought stuck in her mind.

 _What about Luke?_

Luke was on Vader's flagship, she knew. With this, would he be caught in the crossfire? Would he—

She squeezed her eyes shut at the sudden onslaught of tears.

Would she have to watch her brother die?

There was a hand on her shoulder.

"Hey," Han said. He sounded worried. "You alright?"

"Yes." She nodded her head. "Yes. Of course. The Empire is going to _fall_." For some reason, the words made her cry harder.

"And the kid will survive it," Han told her, showing an uncanny ability to guess what she was thinking. "He's smart. Resourceful. He'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"'Course I am, sweetheart. Now c'mon," he nodded over her shoulder. "Your Ma's here to talk to you."

Leia turned. Sure enough, Padmé was slowly making her way through the throng—consistently stopping to answer people's questions, but undoubtedly making a beeline for the two of them. When she got there, however, it was Han she spoke to.

"Captain Solo," she greeted. "If you're not going to the Core, I need you to take the others with you."

Han blinked. "What?"

"I. . . presume you're not coming with us?" Padmé said. She glanced from him to Leia, then back again. "You've made no secret of the fact you're not here permanently. I wanted to ask that, if you _are_ adamant on leaving, you take some of the people who don't want to go on this offensive with you."

" _What_?" Han still looked bewildered. "Why?"

"Because as much as I say that no one will judge them for not coming, I doubt they actually believe that. I need someone to be the first to opt out, to show them that it's _alright_ to opt out, and not be involved. I thought," she finished slowly, "that if you were leaving, you were as good a choice as any."

Han's mouth opened and closed like a fish. He glanced from Padmé to Leia, and kept his gaze there.

"I—" He swallowed. "I'm staying," he said, more to her than to Padmé. "I'm staying." He turned back to her mother. "You'll have to find someone else."

"That's alright." Padmé smiled. "I'm glad you're with us, Captain Solo."

"Han," he corrected, then scratched the back of his neck. "Just. . . call me Han."

Her smile split into a full out grin, and she turned to Leia.

"On a more serious note," she said, "for the plan we've put together, we need you to manipulate the winds."

Leia took a moment to process what she said. "I don't know how to do that. There are so many ways that could go wrong."

"And believe me, we've discussed all of them. But I can teach you, if you want to learn."

It was a split second decision—the magic of her twenty-two minute underwater experience still sang in her veins. "Yes," she said. "I want to learn."

Leia tried to smile hopefully—she _was_ hopeful—but there was still something bugging her.

Padmé's brow furrowed. "What is it?"

Leia asked carefully, trying to keep the disapproval out of her voice, "Did you assassinate Palpatine?"

Padmé froze and really, that was answer enough.

"No," she said, but the measured tone with which she said it belied made Leia tense anyway. "I _sent_ someone to assassinate him—my handmaiden, Duja—but he was already dead by the time she arrived."

"How did he die, then?"

"Duja said he succumbed to his illness very suddenly—he caught an infection. She didn't know how; there's very strict regulations on who's allowed to enter the Palace and risk passing on infections to him, and he hasn't had any official meetings with the outside world in weeks." She shrugged. "We have to assume that he met with someone, wasn't careful enough, and that spelt his doom."

"But you _would have_ assassinated him?" Leia pushed, focusing on the important thing here. She failed in keeping the judgement out of her voice, this time.

"This is war, Leia." Her mother's voice was flat but apologetic. "This battle that we're heading to _is war_. Do you understand that?"

Leia nodded reluctantly.

"Then clear out your rooms—both of you," she added, nodding at Han. "We leave at sunset." She eyed the skies—the storm clouds gathering on the horizon. "And may the tides be with us."

* * *

The moment Vader had received the news about Palpatine's death, he'd ordered the _Executor_ back to Coruscant. The rest of the fleet was to stay in the Outer and Mid Rim, quashing any resistance, but _they_ were to head back _immediately_.

On their way there, however, they passed what was left of Alderaan.

Luke spent the whole time with his face at the viewport, clinging onto the wooden wall so hard his knuckles ached. The ruin of Alderaan's capital city drifted past him—no longer smoking, but still _extremely_ worse for wear.

He knew Vader was coming by a quick glance at the clock—he always came at this time, and it was fitting that they should be passing the ruins of his sister's home while they did. It reminded him what was at stake.

He heard the scraping of the locks—one, three, five, _seven_ of them this time. He'd known his father had installed more locks after his. . . _swim_. . . but seven seemed a little overkill.

He didn't turn around when the door opened. Instead, he winced, tensed his shoulders. This was going to be a fight.

It was always a fight.

Even with Luke's new resolve to save his father, it would be a fight.

The only time it _hadn't_ been a fight was after the Emperor's death, when he'd needed comfort. And Luke. . . hadn't been able to deny him that. _He_ hadn't had that when his mentors— _Aunt Beru, Uncle Owen, Ben_ —had died. All he'd had was the _Falcon_ , a crew he didn't know and the sea.

Atrocities or not, he'd wanted his father to have more than that.

But now there was no grief, no distractions, and they were going to butt heads as usual.

"Luke," Vader said carefully. Luke turned to face him, and jerked his head towards the porthole.

"That's Alderaan out there," he said, "isn't it?"

He didn't need confirmation—he recognised the architecture of the buildings spared by the fires, some of the landmarks Ben and Han had pointed out to him on the way in. That was Alderaan. That was where his twin sister had lived all these years, now all buried under ashes and cinders.

Vader's voice was careful. He even looked slightly pale. "It is."

"I never asked you," Luke mused aloud, "and no one ever told me why you destroyed it."

"The Organas were proven to have links with the rebellion," Vader said immediately. It was a fact of his life—he _clearly_ didn't understand what was so _wrong_ about it all. "They had to be eliminated, and the flow of aid they supplied to the insurgents stopped."

"So you razed the capital city?" Luke had heard _horror stories_ about what had happened to the survivors, even after the Governor and his wife were slaughtered and the Mayor surrendered. "Salted the fields so nothing would grow? Publicly executed a tenth of the surviving population, innocent and guilty alike?"

"It was necessary to maintain order. A clear example had to be shown to all other rulers of the consequences of defiance."

"It was cruel. More than cruel—it was _brutal_. The _people_ —"

"Were, regrettably, innocent." Vader's face darkened at that—and that, more than anything, was what gave Luke hope. Admittedly, not _wanting_ to murder innocent people was a pretty low bar to have, but at least they had a bar. A rung.

Add a few more rungs to the ladder, and they could begin to climb.

"They were poor rulers, son," Vader continued. "The Emperor had promised, time and time again, the consequences of further action. He'd warned them what it would bring upon them and their people. They did it anyway. They had a _responsibility_ ," he spat the word, "to the Alderaanian people. All that blood spilled is on their hands."

"They had a responsibility to the continent, too. And so did the Emperor." His voice went quiet. "And so do you."

Vader turned, hands clasped behind his back, to watch him closely.

Luke swallowed. " _Everyone_ in a position of any sort of power at all has that responsibility. To improve the world as much as they can. Alderaan did what it could. But you and the Emperor only brought more suffering."

"We abolished the slave trade," Vader ground out. "Are you implying—"

"You _know_ I'm not. But I told you before, one good thing isn't enough to make up for all the other bad things. I am _glad_ you got rid of slavery. You _did_ alleviate suffering. But look at all the suffering you caused." Luke gestured out of the porthole. They'd left Alderaan behind by now, but his father got the hint.

He was silent for a long moment. "What is it, exactly, you want me to do?"

Luke stilled at the question. What _did_ he want him to do?

Join them. Renounce the Empire. Give Luke the family he'd always craved, and dismantle the system that had torn him away from them.

That was too vague. It was too _much_ —his father would never agree if he asked for it straight.

But no one had ever called Luke tactful.

"Come with me," he implored, and was startled to find that tears rushed to his eyes at the words. "Come with me. We can find Mother. Take apart the Empire, or just leave it behind. We can be a family."

"Your mother betrayed me."

"And you betrayed her." A pause. "And me."

Vader bowed his head, face unreadable.

Luke smiled pathetically. He wasn't even bothering to hide the tears anymore. "Please, Father." He'd stretched out his hand—his fingers almost brushed his father's sleeve. "Come with me."

Then Vader took a step back.

"I cannot," he told him. His face was menacing— _angry_ —but he was backing away as fast as possible. As if he was afraid.

The tears in his eyes tipped over onto his cheeks. He took a step forward. "Father, please, I _know_ there's still good in—"

"I said _no_ ," Vader snapped, then stormed out.

The harsh clicking of the locks was the only sound in the silence that followed.


	18. A Change of Wind

Padmé began her first lesson to Leia at the bow of _Home One_ as they sped coreward, standing amongst the wind and the spray. It certainly helped the mood of the endeavour.

It was the only thing that helped. Everything else was _impossible_.

"Reach out with your feelings," Padmé instructed, as if that made any sense at all.

Leia grimaced. "What does that _mean_?"

"You'll know it when you feel it."

"Easy for you to say," Leia snapped—it was rude, perhaps, but she was _done_. They'd been at this for hours by now and she was getting tired. The sun was starting to stain the western horizon gold. "You're a goddess—this comes easily to you."

Padmé was silent for a moment. She stood eerily still—she always did—like a figurehead carved of flesh and bone. The wind blew a stray lock of hair across her face.

"I wasn't always a goddess," she said finally. "I was born human. Someone was the Goddess of the Sea before me, and someone will be after. We only last a few centuries or so."

Leia's mouth had dropped open in shock.

Padmé gave a wry smile. "Did you think I made the name _Padmé Naberrie_ up? Amidala was the title I took on as goddess—I was born the youngest daughter to the Naberries of Naboo. Their old manor is where the Rebellion is now based."

"Doesn't Vader know anything about this?" Leia found herself asking, her mouth moving before she could help it. This wasn't something she could comprehend in a heartbeat, so she focused on something she _could_ : logistics. Strategy. "Wouldn't he suspect where you were?"

"He would," she admitted, "and he did. We were married at Varykino—he certainly knew it existed. But I suspect he found it too painful to think about, but also too important the delegate to just anyone. In the end, he assigned Ahsoka to watch over it and report any rebellious activity. Needless to say," she stretched her hands out to show all of the ship, the rest of their armada, "she never did."

Leia nodded. That made sense.

Unlike the rest of it.

"You were _human_?"

"Of course. The sea is fluid; it rarely stays in one form for too long. It doesn't like to be contained. You know how Amidala and Veruna are practically interchangeable in legends? He was the deity before me." She shrugged. "Who knows who'll be the one after me? As long as the sea keeps dying, there won't be one at all."

Leia didn't need to ask what she meant by the sea _dying_. The effect it had had on Alderaan had been both brutal and obvious.

She said quietly, "You had a family?"

"I _have_ a family," she corrected, smiling at Leia. "But yes. My parents; my sister, Sola; my nieces, Ryoo and Pooja. You may know Pooja as—"

"One of Naboo's first senators," Leia remembered. Her history lessons had been thorough and unrelenting. "One of the first international politicians to trust and work with—" Her thoughts stuttered to a halt. "The Jedi."

Padmé nodded. "Having an aunt who was in command of them helped her case," she said slyly.

"But that was three hundred years ago."

"I know."

Leia blinked at her. Padmé had always seemed. . . odd. She swung between there being something young about her and something old; godly and ethereal, or the most grounded, down-to-earth person in existence. One minute she was unbreakable, the next her vulnerabilities were on display for all—at least, Leia—to observe.

As changeable as the sea, yet every bit as reliably _there_.

Now?

Now she just seemed fragile. Eternal, but coming to an end.

Which was admittedly no less of a contradiction than before, but it was still _different_ , somehow.

Leia offered, "When you were first learning how to use this power, were there any tricks that helped you in particular? Anything you struggled with? Techniques?"

Padmé blinked, then broke out in a grin. "Of course," she said, and leaned forward to show her.

* * *

They were nearing the Deep Core. Luke, despite himself, felt an apprehensive shudder as they approached the pass where the _Falcon_ had been attacked by pirates. He hated the enclosure in there, so different to the open sea—and he hated how vulnerable it made him feel.

"Do we have to go through there?" he asked.

"I have my suspicions about how the Emperor died," Vader had growled. " _Amidala_ "—he spat the name—"may have sent assassins to take care of him. I do not trust her not to launch a desperate attack to finish the line of succession, and plunge Coruscant into a power struggle and civil war. We will avoid any predictable route, and that includes taking smugglers' routes where we need to."

"Won't the _Executor_ be too big?"

Vader had thrown him a look. "We will manage."

Now, Luke felt a cold breeze slink along the back of his neck. It was cold— _he_ was cold here, standing out on deck on his rare few allowances of fresh air. But he didn't want to go back into his prison just yet.

And it was because he didn't that he felt it when another breeze, just as chilly, blew in his face.

He heard the creaking in the sails; the same thing was happening to the winds. The sailors didn't bat an eye—winds changed all the time, it was nothing to get in a huff over—but Luke frowned. Vader was supposed to be controlling the winds.

The only other people who could do that—in theory—were him and Leia. And he wasn't doing this.

Which meant. . .

He widened his eyes. They slowed massively as they entered the passage, the fit so narrow Luke wouldn't be surprised if a man could jump clean from the deck to cling onto the cliffs.

Or the other way round.

He spun, and ran towards Vader.

"Father," he panted. He knew what was about to happen, couldn't bring himself to regret what was about to happen, but. . . "Father, listen to me."

Vader, apparently irritated at being yanked out of his conversation with the captain, glowered at him but nodded.

"You have to leave the Empire behind," he got out in a rush. "You have to—"

Vader scoffed, and turned away from him. "No."

"Father, _please_ —"

Then the first volley of shots came.

They peppered the decks—several sailors shouted and died where they stood, blood blooming like a poppy over their white lapels. Luke made to duck down, then realised the Rebels now filing across paths on the cliff faces weren't aiming for him.

But they were aiming for his father, and he was standing right next to him.

Vader had taken the initiative and ducked down, already barking orders. But Luke was half a second too slow to respond, and one of the shots meant for Vader went wide.

It punched him in his sword arm. Pain exploded from the wound—and blood. So much blood—wasn't there an artery there? How soon would he bleed out?

Vader's face hardened when he lifted his head and caught sight of the wound—Luke thought there might have even been panic in his expression before it was wiped away—but lost no time in tearing off a sheet of fabric from his jacket. He yanked Luke's arm closer, ignoring his pained protests, to inspect it. Then he bound it tightly.

Luke stifled his scream behind gritted teeth, but it was difficult. He watched the blood seep into the fabric, the black and red growing darker.

The bullets were still whistling overhead, but now there were shouts as well. The barrage ceased as Rebels leaped and swung from the rocks to the decks—hadn't Luke theorised that it would be possible?—and drew their swords.

Sailors dropped whatever tasks they had to draw their own cutlasses.

They were taking the ship, he processed numbly. The Rebels were doing their damnedest to take the ship—and kill his father while they were at it.

But it wouldn't work. It wouldn't work; Vader could _control the winds_. Narrow passage or not, he would sweep the _Executor_ down it at high speed and leave the sharpshooters far behind. The boarders would be picked off easily once their backup was gone.

Unless. . .

A stray breeze ruffled his hair, and he understood.

Staggering to his feet despite Vader's hissed admonishment, he looked out across the passage. He remembered there were rocks down there—he'd thrown that stocky swordsman overboard onto them when he was last here—and the _Executor_ was slowly but surely drifting towards them. The wind was _pushing_ them towards them.

And the wind was controlled by. . .

He couldn't help but break out in a smile when he looked up at a ridge on the cliff, and saw his sister.

Leia sat cross-legged, eye closed, her expression one of deep focus. She was an easy target up there, but Luke smiled wider to see Han crouched next to her, half shielding her with his body, shooting down any Imperial who so much as _glanced_ her way.

She opened her eyes, and they locked gazes.

Her face split into an identical grin. Even from here, he could see her eyes roving over him—he was _alive_ —and he did likewise. It'd been _so long_ since he'd seen her, Han and Chewie, since Bespin; so much had changed, but he just wanted to run to her and _hug_.

But then her gaze shifted off him to something over his shoulder, and her smile dropped.

He turned. Vader was up again, unharmed by bullets that seemed to be misdirected just before they hit him, and scowling at them. He raised his pistol—

Luke threw himself forward. " _Don't_!" He yanked his arm down; the shot went wide, chipping chalk out of the cliff. His wound _burned_. "Father, _please_ —"

"Get out of my _way_ ," Vader snarled, elbowing him in the ribs. Luke was sent sprawling, but he was up again just as quickly, his hands scrabbling for purchase.

"No, _don't_ —"

The pistol bobbed just above Luke's head as Vader tried to take aim without Luke dragging him down.

" _Please_ —"

Vader pulled the trigger.

Everything seemed to slow. All Luke could feel was the throbbing of the sea, the wind, his own heart as he threw his hands up to clamp round the hot barrel of the pistol, yanking it the only way he could: down.

Down, towards him.

The bullet punched through his chest.

Somewhere, somehow, he thought he heard a woman scream. He knew it wasn't Leia.

He felt the pain before he heard the bang, and saw the stark, sudden _terror_ in Vader's eyes before anything else.

And he couldn't breathe.

Every breath sent spasms through his chest, the torn tissue _screaming_ with agony for every movement, pulses of blood staining the front of his blue shirt.

He couldn't _breathe_.

He hit the ground knees first, his mouth open in a silent scream.

* * *

Leia closed her eyes when she saw Vader take aim—if she really was going to die, she didn't want to watch her _father_ do it, didn't want to see it coming. But otherwise she trusted Han, trusted Luke, to stop him.

She flinched as the bullet carved a furrow into the chalk cliff, but kept on reaching into the wind, pulling it towards her. Towards the rocks below her.

Bang, bang, bang—Han was doing his job, keeping bullets away from her long enough for the battle to be won. She heard Lando's voice below them, leading one of the small boats full of people boarding the ship. If they got enough people on in time, they might be able to commandeer such a massive vessel, instead of sending her to the bottom of the sea and rendering both the passage and the ship unusable. . .

Vader's emotions _exploded_ suddenly, and the winds exploded with them. They whipped around her, plastering her hair to her face. She was learning to sense some of the emotions behind them—horror, shock, _so much rage_ —but she didn't have time to speculate on what caused them. On whether or not Padmé had boarded, or whether something had gone wrong.

She needed to tame them.

So she held on tight, though they tried to buck from her grip like an eel, and _bent_ them. Or rather, coaxed them; it was Vader bending them.

 _This is the way you want to go_ , she whispered. _The way you_ need _to go, if you want_ him _to stop telling you what to do._

They listened, and acquiesced. Persuasion, not control, Padmé had said. That was what Vader had never understood.

She opened her eyes briefly to take everything in: Luke and Vader had ducked behind the sides; Lando's boarding party had just reached the boat; Padmé was on the deck of the _Executor_ , running across with what looked like panic on her face.

And down at the bow of the gargantuan ship, one trooper was lifting his pistol to take aim at Han, who was preoccupied with someone taking aim at _her_. . .

Her hand lashed to her own pistol and she fired.

Han's head snapped to watch the bullet fly—and saw it take him down.

He whistled. "I love you," he said fervently, then froze. "I mean—"

"I know," she deadpanned, then closed her eyes again.

She still had a job to do.

* * *

The wild winds sent the _Executor_ rocking like a poorly spun top, but this was Padmé's element. She melted into the movements as she ran across the deck, dread heavy and frozen in her chest.

That was Anakin—she would recognise him anywhere. And the boy he was bending over, crumpled at his feet. . .

She remembered the baby boy she'd cradled in her womb and then her arms, the ship she'd sent him off with Obi-Wan in. She remembered the scrawl of his words, the tearstains on his letters that went unmentioned, but accompanied every missive.

Luke.

Luke, That was _Luke_ , her _son,_ and—

"What have you done, Anakin."

He snapped round upon hearing her voice, his metal hand—the hand _she'd_ given him—reaching up to point one finger at her. " _You_ —"

She ignored him to crouch in front of her son. "Luke."

His eyes blinked slowly up at her—blue, like Anakin's, so he _had_ retained that lovely cerulean he'd been born with— "Mother?"

She pressed her hand to his cheek, and was dismayed to find herself wiping away blood. "Luke," she said, voice cracking with tears. "What—" Her eyes moved down to the crimson patch across his chest. "You _shot_ him."

Anakin started; she glared at him.

"I— he got in the way—"

"He's going to _die_ , Anakin," she shouted. She didn't care who heard anymore, though the slight hitch in Luke's breathing made her regret her choice of words. "Because you _shot_ him."

 _"He is not going to die."_

But the passionate statement was more desperate than convinced. All she had was a pitiful look to give him.

"You shot him _through the chest_ —by the looks of it you punctured his _lungs_ , maybe even his _heart_ , and _you think he can survive that_?" She was damn near hysterical now, but it was deserved. "Give me my powers back."

"What?" The change in topic gave Anakin such whiplash that he actually stepped back. "What—no!"

"I can save him."

"I have all of your power, right now, and _I_ can't save him," Anakin snarled. "What makes you think _you_ can?"

She drew herself up, lifted her chin, and suddenly she seemed taller than even him.

"Because I am a _goddess_ ," she hissed. "I _deal_ in creation—the _creation of life itself_. I can create a few new cells, but you?" She scoffed. "When have you ever used that power for anything except destruction?"

Anakin had no answer.

"Give it back."

"No," Anakin insisted further, "no—you'll destroy the Empire with it—"

"Yes I will!" Padmé could hear Luke gasping for breath, choking, starving for oxygen behind her, and it only increased the edge in her voice. "I will _crush_ your armada, and _send it to the bottom of the sea_!"

Then her voice softened.

"But Luke will live."

Anakin was staring at her, nothing but pain on his face. It tugged at her heartstrings, reminded her of the scared little boy she'd first met, missing his mother. "Palpatine. . ."

"Was using you all along," she said baldly. Then, more gently: "and you know that too."

Anakin closed his eyes for the briefest of moments—he couldn't afford to do it for any longer. Luke's life ebbed away with every passing second.

Then his hand came up to yank the japor snippet from around his neck.

"This is where the power is kept," he said. "Destroy it, and you get it back."

She didn't bother with words of acknowledgement. She drew out her pistol, and Anakin followed suit.

He cast the necklace to the deck. It lay there innocuously; one would never have thought the grief and pain it had caused.

Then they both pulled the triggers.

Three, five, seven, twenty times. With every bullet that hit, every splinter that flew, she felt another piece of her flood back in. It was intoxicating, enlightening—every part of her cried out to leave the trappings of this mortal form, these mortal wars, and fly away, back to the domain she'd been barred from for so long—

A cold metal hand, damp from sea spray, clamped round her wrist.

"There," Vader snapped. "Now _save my son_."

She knelt down, and took Luke's face in one hand. His eyes flickered between her and Anakin, before finally resting on her with a longing so intense it broke her heart just as surely as that bullet had broken his.

She rested her other hand over it. The blood pulsing over her skin was hot and sticky, but it told her everything that meant hope: his heart was still beating.

Slowly. Barely. But beat anyway.

"Here," she whispered, and healed him.

* * *

The _Executor_ shuddered as it ground over the rocks, and Lando Calrissian strode across the deck. The whole of the ship's crew had been neutralised by the Rebels' superior numbers. They had the ship.

Now all they needed was her commander.

Miss Amidala was kneeling by the side of the ship, next to what looked like Luke. The boy seemed like he'd seen better days—Lando had _seen_ him in better days, though admittedly they'd only been better by a small margin—but he did his best to smile at him anyway. Lando smiled back.

That smile fell when he turned to the man standing about them.

"Lord Vader," he intoned coldly, and lifted his pistol. "You are under arrest by the Rebel Alliance for unspeakable crimes against the continent and this motley group in particular. Will you come quietly, or do we have to use force?"

Vader's blue eyes—similar to Luke's, now that he thought about it—drifted around. They landed first on a spot of deck surrounded by splinters and bullet holes, then on Miss Amidala, then rested on Luke, still deathly pale against the blood covering his shirt.

"I will comply," Vader said, and the world shifted on its axis.


	19. The Heroes on the High Seas

**Last chapter!**

* * *

"Luke!"

There was still a faint ache in his chest—a scar that would never go away—but Leia clearly didn't care about that. She flung herself at him, throwing her arms round his neck; he hugged her back tightly and buried his face in her shoulder.

"Hey," she said, voice trembling. "I— I missed you."

"I missed you too," Luke choked out. He hadn't realised how affected he was until he realised the fabric of her shirt was wet under his face. He was crying.

He didn't bother to hide the tears when they pulled back, still clutching each other's forearms like they'd never let go. His eyes roved across her face.

"You look tanned," he noted. It made sense: she'd actually been allowed to go onto the decks of the ships she'd been on.

"And you look pale," she countered, frowning. She reached up to catch his chin, turning his face left and right.

He smiled. "Being shut in a room below decks twenty three hours a day tends to do that to you."

Her face hardened, and her hand fell away. She glanced down at his chest, then her own—some of the blood still soaking his clothes had rubbed off onto her. "I'm going to kill him."

"Don't." He caught her wrist as it fell, rubbing small, soothing circles on the back of her hand. He still needed the physical contact, if only to reassure himself she was there. She was real. He'd made it out. "He saved my life."

Leia rolled her eyes, but didn't pull away from the contact. He got the feeling she needed it as much as he did.

" _Mother_ saved your life," she corrected. " _He_ did nothing but decide not to stand in her way."

Luke dropped the subject. They'd have plenty of time to worry about it later.

Because coming up behind Leia was the woman who'd healed him.

Amidala looked strikingly human in that moment—Padmé Naberrie, he supposed. She smiled hesitantly as she approached.

Leia looked up at her, and gently tugged her hand from Luke's.

She walked away towards Han as Padmé approached.

"Luke," she said, and put a hand on his cheek.

"Mother," he said back, voice hoarse. He leaned into the touch. This was her. This was the woman he'd been writing to for so long, and every part of him that wasn't human was affirming it.

This was the Goddess of the Sea.

This was his mother.

He lunged forward to hug her. She jerked back with a startled laugh, but wrapped her arms around him just as tightly.

"You're here," she whispered. Another laugh—almost deliriously joyful. "You're _here_."

He squeezed her tighter.

"We're all here."

At her words, he opened his eyes. He was slightly taller than his mother, so he could see over her shoulder with relative ease—see his father standing on the other side of the deck, hands bound in rope before him, guards on either side. He was watching them with an expression Luke couldn't read.

"There's still good in him," he told Padmé.

"I know," she replied. Her breath rushed against his ear. "Why do you think I kept calling him Anakin?"

Luke's eyes blurred with tears. They slid out, down his cheeks, and he could see Vader's expression shift infinitesimally at the sight of them. His eyes flitted over the two of them: they rested first on Luke, then on the back of Padmé's head. . . then they slid over to Leia.

The expression shifted again, and Luke didn't think he'd ever seen something more mournful.

"Hey, kid! Don't I get a hug as well?"

That startled a wet laugh out of his throat. He stepped back from his mother, who rested a hand on his shoulder as he did.

The he threw himself at Han as well, who barely caught him in time.

He was pretty much shaking constantly by now—with laughter, with adrenaline, with _relief_ —and he only laughed harder when he felt another pair of arms snake round his torso, and Chewie was in on the group hug, then Leia was back as well.

Luke closed his eyes and sank into the hug. The last few minutes had been hugs all around, but after all this time. . . he needed it.

He really, really needed it.

He was a little embarrassed to find himself tearing up again, but not too embarrassed.

These were his friends.

And he'd thought he'd never see them again.

So he'd take this moment, and the next, and the next. He'd take as many moments as he could get.

* * *

Anakin's voice was quiet, wry, and the most self-deprecating thing she'd ever heard. "Twins?"

"Yes," Padmé replied gently. She'd been standing facing the only window in the captain's quarters, watching Luke, Leia and Han chat on the deck outside, for a good while; now, she turned to face him.

He sat in one of the chairs at the table, his hands still bound and his sword belt still empty. She carefully took the other seat at the table, and faced him head on.

"It was a difficult birth," she continued. "If I'd still had my powers, I likely could have done it more quickly and painlessly on a different plane to this, but as it was nearly I _and_ the children died."

Anakin flinched.

Instinctively, her hand darted out to cover his on the table.

"But we didn't," she reassured. "We're alive. We're here." She sat back. "Which brings us to this situation."

"It does." Anakin was silent for a moment, before asking, "What happened to those of my men who survived? Captain Piett?"

"All the survivors are currently being held in our brig. And according to Luke, they're in much better conditions than the prisoners _you_ kept were in."

He flinched again. She sighed—as vindictive as she felt, there was no point in antagonising him.

"So now we discuss the terms of surrender."

"Yes. We do."

She folded her fingers in front of her. "Our terms are these," she said. "You know your navy is helpless. Even now, my handmaidens and I are running ships aground all over the continent. You don't control the seas anymore. Your rule is over." She took a breath. "But that leaves a power vacuum, and a power vacuum leads to more war. More infighting. No one wants that."

Anakin drawled, "And what, exactly, do you want me to do to stop it?"

"You're Palpatine's official heir," she replied, raising her eyebrows ever so slightly. "I know politics isn't your strong point, Ani—" He started at the name, and so did she; she hadn't meant to use it. "—but you need to take the throne in order dissolve the Empire gradually and peacefully. Without it, we might have another war on our hands."

He tried to challenge, "And if I don't? If I go back there and declare war, boost navy spending, and—"

"Have all of it be for nothing when it's destroyed?" Padmé's tone was almost patronising. "Don't play political games, Anakin—we both know you're not good at them. These are terms of surrender. And knowing you, you wouldn't have surrendered if there was anything left for you to do."

Anakin's mouth worked, hard. Finally, he said, "I can't go back and destroy all of my mentor's legacy."

Padmé sighed. "You _know_ he was just using you, Anakin—"

"He _saved_ me from the Jedi attack that _you_ instigated—"

"He wanted to wipe out the Jedi!" Her voice was a shout—she doubted he'd realised how _painful_ it had always been for her. The Jedi were _her people_ , and they had been _destroyed_.

She didn't think she'd realised it herself.

She took a deep breath. "They were a threat to him; look how easily the Empire's kept control without them! He wanted me out of the way so he got you to steal my power; he wanted the Jedi gone, so he used them attacking you as the excuse to vilify and exterminate them. And then he wanted an adept commander in charge of his naval forces," she finished, "so he used pretty lies to convince you that the Empire you built was just." She shook her head. "He was using you, the whole time. You have to see it."

"He wouldn't have been able to vilify the Jedi if _they hadn't attacked me_!" he retorted, though anyone could tell his argument was flimsy at best. "If _you_ hadn't told them—"

"I _didn't_ , Anakin." The words were a hiss. "I went to Obi-Wan for help, since _you_ were so reluctant to provide it. I didn't tell him _anything_ , but he inferred enough. I never thought they would attack you, but they were my _Jedi_. What you did was heresy."

He had nothing to say to that. She closed her eyes for a few moments, let herself breathe.

When her heart rate had steadied, she opened them again. "But that's not what we're here to discuss."

She sat up to look him dead in the eye. "The terms of surrender are these. You will go to Coruscant. You will dissolve the Empire. And then each of the countries who are or will later choose to be allied with the Naboo and the Rebellion will pardon you for your war crimes."

"Even Alderaan?" Anakin had to say. Their daughter, he suspected, would not be happy about that.

Padmé's throat twitched. "Even Alderaan," she conceded. "It's the most bloodless solution. Your ship and crew will be returned to you for the voyage, unharmed. So long as you comply. _You_ will be the ruler of the Coruscanti people, unless you choose to appoint someone else, and you will be responsible for leading them into the future."

But at _appoint someone else_ , Anakin's gaze had slid over her shoulder—to the window, and the children beyond it.

He asked quietly, "Will Luke be accompanying me to Coruscant?"

There was raw, desperate hope in his voice—and as little as Anakin had done to deserve such a thing, Padmé found herself hoping he would. He clearly loved his father; that love was clearly reciprocated.

"If he so chooses," she said delicately, and watched the hope in Anakin's face shift to understanding. Neither of them would tell Luke where to go, or what to do; he was a child of the sea. He would choose his own path. "But that is not a condition of your agreement."

"I know." Anakin's gaze slid to the table, where he inspected the grains of wood as if they had the right answer he so desperately sought written into them. "I accept."

A little taken aback, Padmé asked, "You do?"

"I do."

She nodded, bowing her head. . . and then, unable to contain it, she smiled.

Anakin held out his bound wrists; reaching for the knife at her hip, she cut the rope loose. It fell away easily, and he rubbed the skin where it had chafed.

Looking away from her, he asked carefully, "Will _you_ be coming with me?"

She knew what he was asking. _Can you forgive me?_

 _Is there anything left between us worth saving?_

She said, equally carefully, "I have a lot of organisational matters to take care of with the Rebellion." His face fell, then she added, "For now."

He nodded solemnly, though she thought she saw a glimmer of hope pass across his face.

Not now. Not now, but maybe someday.

It had started to rain outside. The children seemed to be levitating raindrops at each other. Han was collateral damage.

Anakin stood up. He made a short bow that threw her back years. That had been the customary way for the Jedi to greet her _forever_ —she hadn't seen it since they fell.

"It's been a pleasure, my lady," he said, then he left the room.

* * *

Luke and Leia didn't retreat when the rain came on, so neither did Han; they all sat on deck together and _talked_ , the way they hadn't before Luke had been captured, when they hadn't understood how much they meant to each other. They sat there, soaked wet with the raindrops, until Leia took it upon herself to show Luke how to exert some measure of control over the water.

After that, it derailed quickly until both of them were soaked through—Han far worse for wear than anyone else.

Luke held out his hand to summon a raindrop to it. It wobbled slightly, then formed a rough sphere. He splayed his fingers wide and wove it between them, so fast it became a blur of blue and grey.

He almost dropped it when the rhythmic clacking of a wooden leg against the deck approached at his back, and his father said, "Could we talk?"

Luke took the moment to safely secure his raindrop over his palm before looking up. Han looked wary, Leia outright glaring—but beyond a sad, wistful look at his daughter, Vader's attention was fixed on Luke.

"Sure," Luke said, because there wasn't much else to say. He nodded reassuringly at Han and Leia, who shot Vader one last threatening look before wandering off.

Vader—Anakin?—gently lowered himself to sit on the deck next to Luke, his wooden leg stuck straight out in front of him. Luke threw a glance at his metal right hand—it hung limp off his wrist, like a puppet with its strings cut. Had the enchantment been broken along with the japor snippet?

His father met his gaze; Luke realised he was staring and looked away. He held his hand up to animate the raindrop again. Watching it zip between his fingers was soothing, and not just because moving it cost enough concentration that he almost forgot who he was sitting with.

"Your mother and I have come to an accord," Anakin said finally. "I will go back to Coruscant to formally dissolve the Empire and decide who will lead the country into the future. In return, my life will be spared."

"She was gonna kill you?" Luke found that hard to believe, for some reason.

Anakin's lips twisted. "It was implied."

A short silence fell. Luke broke it with, "So. . . what does that have to do with me?"

"I was wanting to ask," Anakin said carefully, "if you would come with me."

Luke frowned. He wanted to take this in good faith, but. . . "As your son, or as someone you can force onto the throne?"

"As my son," his father replied heatedly. "I. . . understand, if you don't want to be the heir anymore. The Empire has fallen. There's nothing to be heir of."

"I didn't want to be heir in the first place."

"I know. And I want you there as my son, not a successor. I," he choked up, "care about you."

The raindrop between his fingers had long since dropped to the deck. His hand drifted to his chest, when his shirt was still stiff with blood. The scar underneath the fabric burned with remembered pain.

His father had shot him.

His father had saved him.

"So?" Anakin's voice was painfully close to hope. "Will you come?" He rushed to add— "Of course, if you need more time to think about it I can—"

"No." Luke shook his head, and Anakin stilled.

"No?"

"No, I don't need more time to think about it. And no," his chest became tight, "I won't go with you to Coruscant."

All the strength seemed to drain out of his father. He went pale, eyes downcast. "Alright. I'll—"

"I was talking to Leia," Luke barrelled on, because he hadn't articulated that well, and his father wasn't understanding him— "She wants to teach me how to use my powers, and we want to re-establish the Jedi. We want to heal the sea from everything you and the Emperor did to it."

Anakin flinched, but he listened closely. "And?"

"And I won't go with you, because I can't do that from Coruscant," Luke said. "Once you're done, in a few years, you can come live with us. You were a Jedi; you can help us.

"And," he paused as he said, almost _shyly_ , "maybe, in the meantime. . . we could write to each other? I've spent my life writing to my mother. I— I want to spend some time getting to know my father like that as well."

A faint smile was starting to spread across Anakin's face. Luke knew he understood what he meant. He would not embrace him—he couldn't. Not when the memories were so fresh and recent.

Vader had killed the only guardians he'd ever known. He'd killed one of the best friends he'd ever known. He'd murdered a mentor who just wanted to guide him, caused the death of a woman who'd just wanted to rescue him, and threatened a town that had just wanted to help him. He could forgive the scar on his chest, but not the body count left in his father's wake.

At least, not yet.

He would not embrace him. But nor would he turn his back.

Instead, he reached out his hand.

The rain was everywhere now. It sluiced through his hair, down his back, off his palm.

It had been raining when he'd left Tatooine, he remembered. It never rained on Tatooine.

The ship's sails were soaked, more grey than white, the dark brown of the yards all the richer for it. And there, lined up like scarlet beads on a string. . .

Starbirds. Dozens of them, all peering down at them.

One had a blue chest; another three looked so oddly familiar that it took him a moment to place them. The two he'd seen when he first left his home— _Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru_ , he remembered thinking—and the one from when he'd left Alderaan. _Ben_. Then a fourth, white familiar white marking across her head and neck. _Ahsoka_.

They burst into song when they saw him looking. It lit up the dark grey sky like a second sunrise.

"You would?" Anakin asked.

Luke smiled. "You saved my life. At least, you helped. And you're cooperating now."

"I thought—" He choked on the words. "I thought you said one good thing wasn't enough for redemption."

He had said that.

But was it just one thing? He'd tried to show Ahsoka mercy. He _had_ shown Bespin mercy. Over and over, there had been the signs of lingering goodness in his father, and Luke had dared to hope.

"It's not enough for redemption," he admitted. "But this isn't redemption. Redemption is what comes next." He took a deep breath. "This is forgiveness."

Anakin smiled; the birdsong swelled.

And there, standing in the sunlit rain, under the ovation of everyone who'd come before him, Anakin Skywalker took his son's hand.

* * *

 **Thank you all for reading!**


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